


I Am No Jedi

by Penethia



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Family Fluff, I lied and this is going to be violent, I love these characters therefore I must break them, I swear there is more fluff coming, Original Character(s), Reylo fluff, ben solo took a chill pill, fucking Force zombies idk?, just going to make children sad apparently, no one asked for ben solo dad jokes but you're going to get them, rey looks like an angel but swears like a smuggler, technically gray jedi, whoops my hand slipped and they reproduced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penethia/pseuds/Penethia
Summary: “Come little Jedi,” he roars within the dark, over crackling sabers. “Come and fight me!”The Force curls in his stomach, hisses and writhes, with jagged claws it climbs its way up his throat. There is no doubt, no hesitation, Kiran knows that this man—this monster—will be the next to die on his saber.The raging, vile power within him rips through his bared teeth, screaming for blood and gore. Curses the light and strains for darkness. It will destroy life, ravage planets, drink the sun if it means it can slaughter this man.Monster.Murderous snake.You’ll pay for what you have done!





	1. Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a photo. It started an idea. The idea grew. If I don't write it down then it will consume me.
> 
> If you are reading this I wish to say thank you! I haven't written in quite a while, it may be rusty in some parts, but I hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing and agonizing over it.
> 
> Please feel free to leave constructive feedback and comments. I'm always seeking to improve.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Shout out to melodyoftheriver for beta reading this one for me and offering priceless advice and edits. She is a Muse and she knows it.

**Lah’mu. The Outer Rim. Year 54 ABY.**

 

The whole thing is a mess, a complete and utter waste of his time, he decides. Crouched low in the tall grass he drags the back of his hand across his brow and blinks a few times to refocus. The solar panel is cracked right down the middle from last night’s storm, at least he hopes that’s what cracked it. If he finds out it was Erv’s youngest brat again, he’ll flay the little nerf-herder alive. The boy could use a few swift smacks to the side of his head anyways. He’d dunk him into the Nerf stables too, for good measure. A filthy reminder to not throw rocks at his vaporators.

 

Sighing, he decides to try one last time to somewhat repair the panel. Before he can do much to the pitiful thing, one of the damaged power lines connecting to the panel sparks. The bright embers landing directly on his pants before searing their way to the skin beneath.

 

“Kriffing  _ kriff _ !” The young man shouts, throwing himself back, violently patting down the smoldering spot. The pants are ruined, and he can see angry pink skin peeking out from the holes. Beside him a droid beeps in distress, metal arms moving as if to comfort its young master.

 

“Have I ever mentioned how much I  _ kriffing _ hate when the vaporators malfunction?” He asks, glancing over towards the helper droid. “I mean, really gone exactly how much I hate it? Harris wrench, if you don’t mind, Korb. Nothing else I can do for it now. Pa will need to check this one.”

 

The KO-R6 droid tilts its scuffed chrome head. Carefully selecting the wrench from the nearby satchel and places it in the young man’s outstretched palm.

 

“Thanks,” he huffs, slamming the vaporator’s door shut harder than necessary before tightening the holding bolt back into place. “How many more left, Korb?”

 

Chattering back in Binary, the droid slowly rotates itself to face the opposite direction, it’s metal arm extending towards a darkening sky. Storm clouds. Fast approaching and not likely to putter out before they reach him. As if on cue thunder rolls over and across the swaths of green grass. As though answering the rumbling call, the wind picks up and the long blades begin to sway, waving the storm forward in anticipation.

 

The droid beeps ominously, its head swiveling to-and-fro.

“My thoughts exactly.” The young man sighs, his family’s fields  are flat, the only landmark being the black cliffs about six-hundred yards to the south. Those would provide pitiful protection from the rain though.  “Come on, we better start walking.”

 

In one fluid motion he pushes himself up out of the grass, snatches the tool satchel, and begins to make the two-mile trek back home. Wind mussing up his dark hair, he drags his fingers through it, pulling the locks up into a messy tail. He hasn’t cut it in months. His father had offered to trim the unruly mess on more than one occasion and he had respectfully declined each time. No surprise, the man hadn’t expected his son to take him up on the offer anyway. They both knew that the title of “family-hair-cutter” belonged to mother. Besides, none of the men in the family favored cleanly cropped hair to begin with. It didn’t suit them.

 

Hair now out of his face, he begins to take longer strides, still taking precaution where he steps. The grass is tall on this part of the property and it conceals many things from view.  His mother always told him to make certain that the ground he stood on was solid. Not like sand, no, sand showed no kindness to fools.

 

_ “You’re lucky if you just stumble in sand” _ , she had chided.  _ “Most drown for their carelessness.” _

 

Whenever she had reminded him and his brother of that, her eyes would focus elsewhere. A mask of another person, another life would conceal her away for a moment. Her face no longer home to the tilting laughter and sun warm smiles that defined her. She wasn’t their mother in those moments, but she was still trying to protect them in her own way. Warn them to be wary and sure footed on the path the Force would take them. Careful preparation for the days when she would not be there to protect them.

 

Those days of walking hand in hand with his mother, guiding him along the dark sand shoreline near their home, have long since passed.

 

He is nearly a man, he thinks, and though he would never admit it, he misses his mother like a child. The past months had been long without her. However, she would be home soon. Back to him, his brother, his father, and their homestead.

 

Perhaps she had already made planet fall, perhaps she was walking the familiar path from Lah’Kah Outpost. Pack slung over her back, long hair pulled out of her face like his own because the same wind had rushed to greet her.

 

The thought spurs him forward, nips at his heels, and before he realizes himself he is running. Bounding and leaping through the grass. No longer caring for the hidden dangers, he’ll take them as they come, stumble when he must, but he is certain he won’t fall. He wants to be home. He must be there when she walks through their door and lights up their world with her smile. Hear her call out that familiar greeting to them. See his little brother shout and throw himself into her outstretched arms. Witness the change that always washes over his father when she’s near; the relief and warmth returning to his features.

 

He’s sprinting. Pale green eyes as wide and lively as the world around him. For a moment, if anyone were watching him, he wouldn’t seem like a young man on the brink of his eighteenth name day. No, he would resemble a child, the small burns on his leg long forgotten, running towards the place he calls home. Back to a family that loves him. Back to a family who will always wait for him before they turn out the light.

 

He is a child, eyes forever on the horizon, with a droid following close behind, while dark storm clouds relentlessly creep towards his back.

 

........................................................

  
  


A nearly deafening clap of thunder reverberates through the dome roof, the smooth clay mug of water on the table beside his hand trembles and stills. Overhead, the soft patter of rain was no longer a whisper; it roared. He glances down at the round kitchen table, in his hand is a pen, and practicing his Basic script suddenly doesn’t seem important to the boy. The rudimentary tool he uses is ancient. No one actually writes anymore, everything is digital, streamlined. He has no one to write to, but it doesn’t matter. The awkward letters that scrawl across the paper, lines and lines and lines, are of his own creation. As inseparable to who he is as his name. Thunder growls again and he can’t help but glance at the front door. Hoping that if something had gone wrong, if his brother needed help or was hurt, surely, he would have felt it by now—

 

“Calm yourself, Rosh.” A large hand gently clasps the boy’s shoulder. “We would know if your brother needed help.”

 

“I know,” Rosh mumbles, casting one last glance at the door, he looks up at his father. “It’s just, well, the sun set half an hour ago and Kiran said he’d be back by now.”

 

“Is the lamp on outside?”

 

“Yes, Papa.” Rosh replies, before adding, “I checked twice.”

 

His father nods, patting his youngest son’s shoulder before moving to the kitchen. “He has the lamp to guide him back. Besides, we would have felt if anything had gone amiss. Put your writing aside for now and come help me finish dinner.”

 

Rosh gently wipes the ink from the end of the pen before placing it upright in one of the holes carved into the lid of the calligraphy box. He doesn’t have to, but he takes his time organizing his writing into a neat pile as well before he drags himself away from the table. Further away from the door he expects Kiran to burst through any minute now.

 

“On nights like these, stew is best, don’t you think?” His father asks. “Slice up one of the Ojomian onions, will you?”

 

Pulling the step stool up, Rosh climbs to reach the hanging metal basket filled with a variety of vegetables. Onion in hand he jumps down and makes quick work of gathering the blade and cutting board. As he peels and chops, a comfortable quiet settles over the kitchen. Neither Rosh nor his father speak as water bubbles and boils and a blade softly taps against the cutting board with each stroke. Of all the members of his family, Rosh recognizes that he and his father are most alike.

 

They delight in the company of the two rowdier members of the family, but find the same enjoyment merely being together in silence like this. Perhaps his father is a bit too solemn at times, a bit too quiet, but he knows the sound of his father’s laughter. It is no stranger in this house. That, Rosh concludes, is acceptable.

 

“Ready, Papa?” Rosh peeps, lifting the plank full of meticulously sliced onions and carefully moving to stand beside his father at the stove.

 

“Be careful,” his father cautions, shifting aside so his son could easily angle the board over the stew pot. He needn’t have worried though. Of both his sons, Rosh was not the one to rush things. The dark-haired boy carefully slid the onions in with a soft  _ plop _ and took the board to clean in the sink.

 

He felt it before he heard it. A slight ripple in the air and the clear presence of Kiran’s own Force signature. It trembled and blazed, his son was unharmed though displeased.

 

“Rosh, go grab a towel for your brother.”

 

Rosh looks up, tilting his head as though listening. A wide grin lights up his freckled face before he turns and bounds through their living quarters, down the hall, and into the family fresher.

 

“Grab a new set of clothes for him as well,” calls his father. “Put them in the fresher. He’ll forget them otherwise.”

 

A moment later the front door clicks and whooshes open. Wind tears through the frame, shoving a soaking wet Kiran through before the entrance seals itself. Black mud plasters up and down his legs, nearly to his waist, with bits of long grass placed almost artfully throughout the muck. Water drips from every angle and limb of him, a puddle quickly forming where he stands; miserably staring at his father in the kitchen. Kiran sniffles before wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Leaving a streak of mud across his face. He watches as his old man turns to take in the disheveled and half drowned sight of him.

“Ah, I did not realize we would be entertaining the Prince of Slop this evening,” he muses. Crossing his arms ove r his chest and leaning against the counter to better admire the sight. “I like your new ensemble. Very becoming.”

 

“That’s the  _ King _ of Slop to you,  _ old man _ . Besides, mud or no, I’m still the most handsome guy this side of the planet.” Kiran insists.

 

“Of course, of course, my lord” his father quickly agrees, pressing his lips firmly together.

 

Leaning over, Kiran unlaces his muck caked boots. “The mud adds character.”

 

“Rugged charm at its best.”

 

Rosh emerges from the hallway carrying folded towels. He falters, finally getting a good look at his brother. “What  _ happened _ to you?”

 

Kiran flashes a grin, with his boots off and next to the door he begins unfastening his belt.

 

“I’m fine, kid. Just a small slip.” He steps out of his pants, thankfully his under garments aren’t filthy, just soaked. He can keep them until he gets to the fresher. “Trade me.”

 

Rosh gingerly takes the soiled clothing, nose wrinkled, he looks imploringly at their father who just shrugs. Seeing that no aid will be given, he carefully takes it to the back of their home to be washed later. He returns quickly.

 

“We’re having stew for supper,” he announces.

 

“Nerf stew,” their father adds. “After your tiring  _ ordeal _ I’m certain a full stomach will be welcome.” Kiran can hear the barely controlled amusement in his voice. But the old man’s back is turned to them as he resumes tending to the stove top. “Go wash up, it will be ready by the time you’re done.”

 

Kiran makes his way across the living space and towards the hall, before he can turn the corner that leads to the fresher door, his father calls to him.

 

“Oh, and Kiran,” he begins.

 

Kiran pauses, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. “Yeah, Pa?”

 

“You’re not a king of anything until you can afford your own castle and land.  _ I’m the king in this house. _ ”

 

Kiran bristles slightly, he can’t let the old man off so easily, but the promise of a warm shower is calling him. The fresher door slides open and he steps in, but before it closes, Kiran grins and yells back.

 

“That’s not what Mom told me!  _ Long reign the Queen _ !”

 

..........................................................

 

The stew is indeed welcome, Kiran decides. The broth is perfectly salty and buttery; it goes down well with bread. The onions and chunks of meat are tender and nearly melt in his mouth. While he was cleaning up, Rosh had made a pot of spiced tea that complemented the hearty stew. The three of them sat quietly at the table sipping from their cups after their meal. The remainder of the stew had been stored away for later. They always made sure to set aside portions of food when someone was missing from the table, but soon to be home.

 

Outside the storm began to quiet down, no more rolling thunder, just the soft patter of errant rain on the domed roof. Their father breathes deeply, savoring the final moment of calm before he speaks.

 

“Normally you can make the rounds in four hours,” he begins quietly. “Tell me. What happened?”

 

Kiran leans back, holding his cup in both hands. He stares up at the smooth ceiling. He wasn’t in trouble. His father’s deep and steady voice was calm but concerned. Kiran hated to be the bearer of unwanted news. He was adept at fixing most of the mechanical issues around the homestead. His mother had made certain of that. They hardly ever bought anything new, no, not when there was a chance it could be salvaged or reused around their home. Kiran used to be embarrassed of their farm’s secondhand tech. Now he took an odd sense of pride in that fact. Their homestead was prosperous, if humble, able to support itself, those who came to stay with them to learn, and any neighbor who may have landed on challenging times. A solar panel would be the first new part they’d purchased in years, but it was necessary. Kiran was certain of that.

 

“Solar panel on vaporator twenty-nine is cracked. I tried to poly-seal it, but it was no good.” He frowns, continuing. “I don’t think yesterday’s storm did it. I’d put my credits on Erv’s boy having used it for target practice. Little moof-milking, kriffing bantha-fodder of a—”

 

“ _ Language _ ,” his father warns. “I can’t have your mother returning to you spouting off profanity like some—”

 

“Thermal engine on twelve is also non-functioning.”

 

_ “Kriff!” _

 

Both boys catch each other’s stare across the table before dissolving into a mess of laughter. Kiran throwing his head back to howl, while Rosh giggles and slips out of his seat from the force of it. Their father was, and would always be, a walking contradiction in their eyes.

 

..........................................................

 

Hours later, the rain has stopped. Rosh has long since been put to bed. The evening’s excitement and a fully content stomach better than any bedtime story his father could have conjured to entice him. He sleeps soundly in the room he shares with his brother while, above him, on the dome roof of their home, Kiran and his father sit side by side watching the clear night sky. The air is cool and fresh after the torrential downpour. Around them the hum of small life weaves the fabric of Lah’mu’s nightscape.  The world is entirely dark save the lights that top the vaporators scattered across the field, and above them, billions of tiny chunks of ice and rock float around in the night sky in beautiful ringlets, enveloping the planet like a protective blanket. Beyond that, the tendrils and whirls of stars and planets in the vast ocean of space reach out and glimmer from behind the spectacular canopy created by Lah'mu's rings.

 

The Force steadily thrums around them. Years ago, on a night like this his father had shared with him that the Force manifested itself differently on other planets. On some it was weak and wounded, on others it weighed heavy on those who could sense it, still on some it was pure and faintly sang, while on others it left a bitter taste in the mouth. Though, on Lah’mu, his father had said, it was steady like a heartbeat. Gently pulsing through and around everything. The lush greenery of the grasses and hills contrast with the foreboding darkness of the sands and rocks. There was a balance to this world and it simply felt right because of it.

 

Lah’mu is sparsely populated. Forty years ago, it boasted a population that barely reached five-hundred. Settlers had fled from the chaos of war to the Outer Rim in search of peace and the promise of safety. Now the planets inhabitants were over three-thousand and steadily continued to rise. A growing population was good for people like him and his family. Lah’mu has rich soil for farming, but all the minerals make the water bitter and unpleasant to drink. Vaporator farms like his family's were able to farm the air for water and sell it at the outpost. Income was guaranteed, and the council kept prices fair for all parties involved with the farming and selling of precious water.

 

The Council of Lah’mu was established over twenty years ago. Every two years an election was held for the next governor. It was their duty to ensure that the outpost was in working order, crafts could land and depart, and that small disputes that arose between individuals and homesteads were settled. However, Kiran couldn’t recall the last time a dispute had gotten out of hand in which the governor or council needed to intervene. If he was right about Erv’s son having damaged their vaporator, then that would make it the fourth time the boy had damaged property and he would be brought before the governor and council to receive punishment. Most likely community work for a certain period. Or his family would pay for the damages.

 

His father had turned down the position of governor several times in Kiran’s lifetime. The man was well known and respected. His demeanor and presence spoke of a quiet dignity and sharp mind. It was obvious to most that he had been educated and trained for loftier goals in life. However, whenever his firm decline of the position was protested he would smile and say that he came from a family of slaves, farmboys, and smugglers. He was content with his chosen station in life, had fought for it, and that the life he led best suited him.

 

It was a lie, of course. Even Kiran only knew half of the truth .

 

The evidence of the lie is in his father’s hands. The smooth, metal hilt gleams in the soft light of the night sky above them. The saber is new, untested in battle, and not made for his father to wield. In a few short hours Kiran will see his eighteenth name day and the rules of his family, of their beliefs, are clear on what that means.

 

His father is the first to break his gaze away from the heavens, choosing to rest his dark eyes on his eldest child. “I realize that it is a bit early...however, I am a sentimental fool and you are my firstborn."

 

His father hesitates for a moment, before unceremoniously extending the hilt of the lightsaber towards him.

 

It's stupid to be afraid of the little thing, Kiran knows, but he can't help his nervousness. He reaches out to take the saber from his father's, his hand hovering above his in hesitation.

 

"Go on," his father encourages.

 

Kiran takes it, testing the weight in his hand. Years ago he begun the process of constructing his own blade. Preparing for the very day tomorrow would bring. He lives and breathes the code his family abides by, it defines the very core of him, yet does not burden or shackle him. The Force is life and death itself, to listen and trust in it is as simple as existing.

 

At ten he told his parents he wanted to learn, to understand. From that day forward he trained with them, observed them, and listened to them. He was hardly ever alone in his learning. Their homestead has a row of small houses, with one room each and a community fresher, not forty yards off from the main house.

 

Kiran can recall many times growing up when they had been full. When off-worlders would arrive in Lah’Kah Outpost and ask for directions to their homestead. The residents and shop owners of the outpost would knowingly nod—not unfamiliar with this request—and kindly point them in the right direction. They came from every species and planet, some young, some old, some sure, but most carried their trepidation in the open. Fearful of the power within themselves. Fearful of the way it sang and snarled, the way it made them different, precious, powerful, and hunted.

 

His mother took them all. Gave them shelter and food, safety from themselves, and from the shadows that sought them. She would train them in the early hours of the morning, show them how to harness their strength, to listen and accept it, and most of all to walk the path that it demanded of them. His Father always beside her, quiet, harnessed, though no less a master than she. Two halves of a whole. They moved together. A singular entity.

 

Sometimes the off-worlders would stay for a few months before departing, others stayed for years. When an off-worlder arrived at their doorstep with the name  _ Finn _ or  _ Poe _ on their lips, she would take extra care in their training. Kiran asked her once who the individuals they spoke of were and why their names meant harder training and extended time living and working on the homestead. His mother only smiled in those moments before wistfully saying that they were the names of dear friends. The individuals they sent to her would need to be more resilient and ready for the path they would walk. They would be protectors and warriors.

 

_ “Are they going to be Jedi like you and Papa?” _ Kiran had asked when he was twelve and much more curious. Even in the Outer Rim worlds the legends of Jedi, the Sith, and battles of old were fondly repeated to the younglings.  Kiran imagined himself to be part of that mythical world. To his boyish eyes his parents, who dressed in shades of grey with sabers tucked beneath the folds, were synonymous with the term Jedi.

 

_ “No, my little heart,” _ his mother had replied.  _ “There are no more Jedi. There is only the Force and those of us who can hear it.” _

 

Grasping the hilt, the same question bothers him now as it did then. If his mother and father were not Jedi; what were they? What did that make him? A young man who holds a saber as easily as he holds a wrench. Who feels the Force around him like a second skin.

 

The cool metal of the hilt feels good. The weight perfectly balanced. The shape made for his, and only his hand. Holding it, he recalls how a year ago his father and he travelled to Tatooine, a desert planet that Kiran had seen in his dreams. It whispered his name, like the shifting sand dunes across its surface, the Force within him stirred, moved him to leave Lah’mu in search of something he could not be sure he would find. His father made no objection the morning Kiran told him he had to leave the planet. He had to go to Tatooine. The man had only regarded his desperate words for a moment, before nodding. They chartered a ship within the week, flew to the planet that haunted his dreams, and together they located a rare and precious thing.

 

A Durindfire gem. 

Unblemished and beautiful in its perfection. Kiran cradled the small crystal in his palm, felt it pulsing and warm against his skin, a small beating heart in his hand. To have parted with it would have meant leaving his soul on the scorching, dry planet. The Durindfire gem felt like the Force itself in his hand. How his father was able to afford it, Kiran would never know. The sweaty Twi’lek trader demanded an unthinkable sum for it, was planning on taking it to Naboo to be presented to Queen Shri’shiree and her court. He had scoffed and doubted that the man garbed in simple clothing and ornaments before him would be able to pay the price.

 

Kiran, so absorbed in the whispering stone, didn't notice his father raise a gloved hand to the trader’s face and gently nudge the Twi’lek’s mind to a more agreeable sum.

 

Now, a year later, Kiran sits on the plastered dome roof of his family’s home with the night sky above him and the stone back in his hands. He crafted the hilt, but his father  set the gem for him. It hums, attuned to the world around them and Kiran’s own Force signature.

 

His father’s eyes search his face in the dim light as Kiran gazes at the weapon in his hands. He looks up, at his father, expecting him to tell Kiran what to do now, but finds that his father's eyes are brimming with tears.

 

"What's the matter, Pa?"

 

His father takes in a deep, shaky breath.

 

"... I remember…” he begins slowly. Testing the words. “The day your mother told me we were having a child, " his father chuckles. " I was _ so incredibly  _ happy, terrified, yet immensely happy. Your mother was so young, we had only just arrived on Lah’mu...”

 

He falters, a soft chuckle on his lips. He regards his boy,  _ his son _ , even now the truth amazes him, and drinks in the sight of him. The boy favors his mother, which is possibly for the best. High cheekbones, a straight, fine nose with a smattering of freckles. However, he has a few moles that resemble his own, the fullness of his lips, and the set of his eyes. Pale green eyes that neither he, nor his wife share in. He has a hunch where the shade comes from in his family line, but he would rather not consider it further.

 

“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” he continues. “And now look at you." His father waves his arms, "Eighteen years old. Eighteen!" He exclaims, and Kiran laughs at his father's theatrics.

 

“Use it well” his father murmurs, his final lesson. “The Force will always guide you. There is passion, yet peace—”

 

“—there is serenity, yet emotion,” Kiran continues, the words familiar and comforting.” There is chaos, yet order. Life is to be guarded, yet death has its place.I will not stand idly by when the Force shows me the way. I am the Force and the Force is within me.”

 

“Stand.” His father softly commands, hesitating. “Ignite your saber.”

 

Licking his dry lips, Kiran rises, shifting one foot slightly back into the stance he’s made countless times. Of all the pupils his parents have trained, Kiran has been the most unfaltering. He would rise with the sun and practice all battle forms, fluidly moving from one to the next until his body ached and his limbs trembled. Long after the other pupils left the practice field to find respite. He continued to train.

 

Sensitive to the Force, yes, he could feel its presence and whispers brush against his consciousness, but his father’s talents for Force manipulation had fallen to his younger brother. So attuned and sensitive to the ripples and flow of the Force, Rosh could move in and out of it as easy as breathing. Once, his parents had been concerned that such sensitivity would make him vulnerable. It was not easy to forget the dread in his father’s eyes when Rosh had spoken of nightmares or voices. His expression unreadable as he blindly clutched for his wife’s hand, squeezing hard until, unaware of the effect his recollections were having, Rosh had ended that it hadn’t been a nice dream and finished his breakfast.

 

For an entire year one of their parents would sleep next to their youngest child every night, holding his little body close, never daring to sleep themselves. They listened and waited. For what, Kiran would never know, but those days passed and Rosh, though quiet, had the most tranquil energy signature of them all. No, Kiran would never equal his brother’s natural talent in that regard.

 

Battle, however, was a different story.

Brilliant white light pierces the darkness, illuminating the small space between father and son. The energy of the blade igniting demands that he tightens his grip, hands trembling slightly from the weapon’s hum. The sensation causes something deep inside of him to snap, a pleasurable twinge in his chest as he looks the blade over, turning it to admire the sight of it.

 

His father’s eyebrows raise slightly, “A w hite blade. Very fitting.”

 

Kiran swiftly rotates the blade in his hand merely to see how it feels, the saber is alive, he realizes. It nearly  _ sings _ as he spins it in the darkness, a rich deep tremor to accompany the movement. He could easily harm himself, blister his flesh or take his own limb, strangely he doesn’t fear the idea. The saber is part of him after all; an extension of his own body and consciousness. It anchors him within the flow of the Force yet weighs very little as it sears the air. A living thing meant to strike down other living things. The realization causes Kiran to swiftly disengage the blade, the light winking out of existence. No longer a beast ready to strike, the creature sleeps in his hand, warm and ready to wake at its master’s call.

 

“Kiran?” His father asks, concern tinting his voice.

 

This is different than the sparring blades he was familiar with. Dead pieces of metal and wood scraped together from whatever his mother had scavenged. A lifeless thing clashing against another lifeless thing in a fit of shifting forms and bodies. Misjudging or not reacting quickly could result in an unsightly bruise, at worst a cracked rib, but a lightsaber, wielded in a skilled hand could incapacitate, maim, or strike down anything in its holder’s path.

 

People and creatures would die on his lightsaber, of this Kiran is certain. The thought was sobering, and he couldn’t bring himself to respond to his father’s concern, afraid that his voice would crack and betray this moment of weakness.  _ Damn himself _ , didn't he want this? Train for this for the better part of his young life? Fighting down the urge to reel back and throw the saber handle as far away from himself, his home, the fragility of his peaceful existence, he yanks a hand through his hair before speaking. The sting and slight ache on his scalp oddly comforting.

 

“What does this mean?” He asks, his voice harder than intended.  _ “What does this make me?” _

 

“In the old days of the Republic, it would have meant leaving behind the title of Padawan and ascending to the rank of Jedi,” his father shrugs in the dim light. “Now? Now you make of it what you choose. Not my problem, kid.”

 

In that moment Kiran dully realizes that his father is the  _ kriffing king of the nerf-herders _ . What kind of response was that supposed to inspire in him? The man had been teaching students for as long as Kiran could remember, shit-teaching probably, if current examples could apply, but teaching nonetheless.

 

_ “Why are you like this?” _ He moans, waving his hand up and down his father’s seated form. “Old and impossibly annoying in your cryptic soothsaying. I swear, what does mom see in a  _ laserbrain _ like you?”

 

The smirk his father shoots up at him is downright insulting, Kiran decides. He has no desire to know what errant thought flittered across the old man’s mind. Oh sure, he could reach out and probe to see it’s remnants, but he had the sense not to. Instead he focuses on how the insufferable smirk pulls at the scar that bisects his father’s lean face. Such a wound should have disfigured him, and Kiran has spent many hours wondering how his father had received it. Even at this age the man is a monster in combat, to imagine him in his youth, in his prime, stalking the battle field with saber in hand. He shudders, goosebumps prick down his arms, then he blinks, and the image is gone. All that remains is his father, sitting nonchalantly with his long legs crossed and hands in his lap. Kiran frowns.

 

“You know what,” he amends. “I don’t want to know. Keep that secret,  _ old man. _ ” Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he begins to back away towards the narrow steps that curve around the building and down to the ground. “I’m off to bed.”

 

His father doesn’t move to follow, choosing instead to turn his gaze back to the heavens.

 

“Get some sleep.” He advises. “Your mother won’t be planetside until late afternoon. Korb can make the rounds today.”

 

Ah, there it is, Kiran thinks. He had checked the comms every day and no messages had been sent or received for weeks now. How his father knows the exact time when his mother will return is a mystery. The silent language only his parents know. No amount of distance or time stifles it. Always in tune with the other and never wrong in their predictions.

 

“Do you think she’ll be upset, you know—" he holds the saber hilt, pausing on the first step for his father to see. “That she wasn’t here?”

 

“Not at all. She agreed that I could give it to you early.” There’s that knowing smirk again. “As long as I swore she would be the first one to help you break it in. I’d suggest you rest, she’s been waiting for this day ever since you were born. Frankly, probably, ever since you were conceived." His father chuckles at the face Kiran makes at this. "She won’t go easy on you.”

 

Both of his parents are  _ kriffing _ insane, Kiran decides. Before his father can delve into more detail about the circumstances of his birth, he escapes down the stairs and punches in the access code by the door.

 

Inside their dim bedroom, Rosh is strewn across his narrow bed, a gangly arm thrown over his face and feet sticking out from under his blankets. He’s breathing heavily, but evenly, their rooftop conversation having done little to disturb the child’s slumber. Kiran looks over his brother with soft eyes and an easy grin before gently tugging the blankets back over Rosh’s exposed feet.

 

He quickly changes into sleep clothes, soft from years of use, and climbs into bed. He lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, he sits up and reaches over the edge of his bed for the saber hilt, gently placing it in the small alcove beside his bed. Drifting off, he considers that he will always want it nearby, even in his sleep. Somehow the thought comforts him and he relinquishes his consciousness into the realm of dreams, a small smile at his lips.

 

.....................................................................

 

She has been standing there the whole time, gazing over her husband’s head, lean arms folded across her chest. Unseen and unheard, her presence only realized by her husband. A silent specter presiding over a ceremony a thousand generations old, however, in the moment, there was nothing reverent about it. They were no master and padawan, they were of each others blood, father and son. This was a tradition older than the Jedi; stronger than the Jedi. A right of passage handed down from parent to child.

 

Patiently she waited until their child, rightly appalled by his father, had escaped inside to bed.

 

“You’re a  _ kriffing _ disgrace; you know that, right,  _ Ben Solo _ ?” She says to him once he is truly alone.

 

He tilts his head back to gaze up at her. The heavenly bodies above pour through her and reflect off the dark surfaces of his eyes. “My dearest,” he challenges. “You love me. Lets not sully your good reputation by insinuating my character is anything less than acceptable.”

 

She smiles as she leans over, her fingers brushing faint outlines on his upturned face. Long hair tumbling over her shoulders to frame him. With the night sky glimmering and swirling behind her, the rings of Lah’mu illuminating her ethereal form, he sighs, defeated. She could lay any name, any title upon him and he would accept it.

 

“ _ Rey _ ,” he breathes. “ _ Come home. _ ”

 

“Soon." She whispers and is gone.


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this I wish to say thank you! I haven't written in quite a while, it may be rusty in some parts, but I hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing and agonizing over it.
> 
> Please feel free to leave constructive feedback and comments. I'm always seeking to improve.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Once again, thank you to melodyoftheriver for beta reading this chapter for me. She even came up with the name of this one. She has her own account here and I highly recommend you go check it out.  
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melody_Of_The_River

 

 

**In Orbit Above Lah’mu**

 

 

The rings of Lah’mu feel as though they embrace the passenger shuttle as it descends through the atmosphere towards the planet. Protective of the small life forms returning to her fertile lands and untamed seas. There are about fifteen or so individuals inside the shuttle, some are new settlers come to make the planet their home, their eyes dart from the fellow faces on the ship, down to the planet and rings, then back again. Two are traders, a Lorridian male and Hapen female, looking to barter for rich mineral extracts at the outpost. Another is visiting his extended family, joyful at the chance to see his brother and nieces for the first time in three standard years.

 

Only two lone figures sit at the further end of the stark passenger lounge. The older of the two sits by a viewing window, her brow pressed against the layered and reinforced glass. She gazes out, not at the stars or mesmerizing rings, but down at the misty planet beneath them with longing. Despite her best efforts the toll of her work is apparent in her features. A gray and yellowing bruise mars the temple of her face and the evidence of scrapes, freshly healed by bacta patches, crisscross across her jaw and down the curve of her neck. Dark under-eye circles contrast with the intensity of her steady gaze through half lidded eyes. She lifts a hand, placing it palm down on the glass, thin fingers thrumming a quick tune on the clear surface; clearly ready to have firm ground under her boots.

 

Ready to be home.

 

Her younger Fondorian companion clears her throat. “If I may, Master Rey,” the woman begins softly. “I would like...to thank you for coming when the General sent the comm message. I am ashamed that I required you to come to my aid so soon after having departed. Even more so for how long it took to repair the damage I had done.” She pauses, biting her lip before blurting, “Forgive me, Master. It won’t happen again!”

 

Rey ceases tapping her fingers on the glass, and gently places her hand back into her lap before righting herself to look at her young companion. What was once the image of pitiful exhaustion shifts into something nearly refined; wisdom in the faint lines at the corner of her eyes, experience in the tilt of her head, strength in the pale scar that follows the curve of her left cheek. Yet there is a softness in her tired brown eyes that knows only compassion; a lilt to her mouth that betrays amusement.

 

“Oh yes, Zoya,” she lightly chides, in a high, clear tilting voice. “How dare you seek help from me, your teacher, when you are unable to find your center. What do you have to say for yourself, _hmm_?”

 

“ _F-forgive me_!” Zoya cries, lowering her smooth head awkwardly in a show of trembling repentance. “I am humiliated by my inability to live up to your teachings.” She had refused to allow herself to sit from the moment they boarded the transport shuttle and departed from the Alliance fleet nearly a standard hour ago. Instead choosing to awkwardly hover next to Rey, casting furtive glances at the older women throughout the trip. Her anxiety crashing against Rey like waves on rocks. However, Rey mused to herself that the waves of anxiety were much more preferable to the hissing creature her student had been up until a few days earlier.

 

Six months ago, when the comm came through and Poe’s terrified voice was heard over the crackling connection, Rey already knew why. She had been asleep the night before, curled next to Ben, when the screams shook through her. Lurching up, she had echoed the frightful noise, shrieking with a voice and pain that was not her own. Clutching at her chest, above her heart, she realized that it was not a physical wound that reverberated through her, but an emotional one. _Suffering. Innocents. Slaughter._

 

Vaguely she recalled their son’s horrified faces in their doorway. Ben had shouted something to the boys and quickly Kiran had dragged Rosh away. They did not return.

 

Over and over the agony that was not her own gripped her and threatened to wrench her frantically beating heart from inside out. Deep in her mind she knew the emotions and suffering were not her own. Knew she could throw up her shields and protect herself, but to do so would only bring more pain to the one who was reaching out for her across the stars. For the sake of that, she fought to remain present and undefended. Ben’s firm arms encircled her waist as she thrashed and wailed, he was all that held her within the confines of her skin and mind. Had it not been him, had their bond not been honed so finely and unbreakable over the years, she would have never been able to endure. As she suffered, so did he, grit his teeth and anchored them both. This was not the first time he had to be strong for both of them.

 

Finally, in the early morning hours, sobbing into Ben’s shoulder she weakly sighed _“Zoya...Zoya.”_

 

Her husband gently brushed his hand down the back of her head, the other tilted her chin so he could see her bleary eyes. “Are you back with me, sweetheart?”

 

She nodded, unfurling her legs to stretch the sore muscles. Ben had dragged them both down to the floor at some point in the night, and had curled her up in his lap. Rey could not remember when, she must have blacked out at some point, but she let him lift her before gently depositing her on their bed. He collapsed back down to the floor, his back leaning against the bedframe, anxiously watching her from the corner of his eye. Feeling him gently flitter across her mind through the Force, vigilant for further complications, she exhaled, opening herself completely for him while through their bond she hummed.

 

_I am fine. I am fine. I am fine._

 

_Thank you._

_I love you._

_I am fine._

 

She was coming back to herself. Feeling the ache of her raw throat and chapped lips, she moved to reach for the pitcher of water on the side table. Before she could, Ben was already placing a glass in her shaking hand, helping to guide it to her lips. He watched, unblinking as she drank deeply, the water stung her ravaged throat, yet she paid no mind and gulped down the second glass her husband pressed to her lips as well. Water was life and at the moment Rey felt on the verge of death.

 

From the way her husband’s uneasy eyes never left her face, she assumed she looked like death too. Smart man, though, he chose not to voice that observation.

 

“Did something happen to Zoya?” He gently prodded, taking the empty cup from her hand.

 

Rey nodded, allowing herself to fully sink back into the pillows. “She lives. The damage is within her; she is angry at herself. So scared and uncertain.”

 

“Will you go to her?”

 

Rey closed her eyes before nodding. Such a sudden and violent imbalance could not easily be remedied without help. Poe would not know how to best assist his newest Force sensitive agent. Zoya was still young and had left their homestead to join the New Alliance no more than three months ago. Inexperienced and naive, Rey could only guess at what had transpired for such a horrifying connection to be bridged between the former apprentice and her teacher. She would leave soon to find out and mend what she could, but first sleep was desperately needed before she would be well enough to make the journey.

 

Ben shifted to stand, stopping as Rey’s hand shot out and grasped his own. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go just yet.”

 

He leaned forward, silently nuzzling his face to hers. Large nose brushing her jawline as he sent fleeting images of their son’s scared faces from the doorway. Earlier he had shouted at Kiran to take Rosh to one of the apprentice houses to sleep. He didn’t want his sons to lay awake in their room down the hall, unable to help as their mother shrieked and thrashed under the attack of an unseen assailant. He was going to go check on them and soothe their worries. He would return soon.

 

Rey had let him go. Pleading through their bond to make sure they knew she was alright and that she loved them. When he returned a standard hour later, the sun’s early rays were streaming through the lone window of their sleeping quarter, and his wife was curled in on herself sound asleep. Quickly closing the window coverings to keep the light at bay, he carefully climbed in next to her, wrapping himself around her small form. Neither woke until Kiran had knocked hours later, informing them they had an emergency comm message...

 

Rey could count on one hand the number of students who had given her this much trouble, but none of them had required a short stay in the medical ward on an Alliance ship. Poe had ordered Zoya retrieved and sedated after her mission took a turn for the worse.

 

“Slave trade,” he had said, not quite looking Rey in the eyes. “She was undercover. Things went south when their buyer went back on his deal. The slavers decided their _product_ wasn’t worth the risk and began jettising them into space to avoid detection when they entered Alliance territory.” He paused, running a hand through graying hair. He had looked at Rey then, eyes pleading for understanding.

 

“She... _Commander Zava,_ ” he corrected. “Wasn’t able to save most of them. Her partner said it was the when she saw children through the viewport that caused her to...change. She needs help, Rey. I can’t help her on this.”

 

Rey was allowed access to her holding room. Demanded they cease pumping her full of sedatives and waited. When Zoya came to she was distraught, refusing to speak to Rey out of shame. So Rey had waited. She had always been good at waiting. Poe and Finn were delighted to have her with them for the time being. She busied herself with small odds and ends. Aided in brief missions made even briefer when she ignited her lightsaber. In the back of her mind though, she was always keeping tabs on Zoya’s signature in the Force.

 

Months went by and the self-loathing festered within her student. Everything came to a head when Zoya lashed out at Rey, darkness nearly suffocating the spark of light inside her as she hit and clawed her master. They had taken her saber from her for this very reason. Rey made no attempt to fight back, instead she accepted it all and spoke softly to the girl. In the end however, she had calmed and helped Zoya meditate, to soothe the anger and self-loathing within herself. To accept her failure and move forward with it as a reminder. When Zoya opened her wide amber eyes once again, they were clear and whole, tears streaming down her face as she bowed and begged Rey for her forgiveness.

 

There is nothing to forgive, Rey had thought. All students learned and healed differently, and Zoya was no exception. Despite this, her student had taken it upon herself to do her best to offer some soft of self-punishment. Demanding she be the one to escort her master back to Lah’mu, still apologizing even now. Naturally, Rey, exhausted and prone to antics better suited to a child rather than a master, was messing with the girl...

 

“You should be!” Rey snaps back. “I am a terribly busy and important individual. _I’m a kind of a  big deal_ , Zoya.”

 

The crown of Zoya’s head is nearly level with Rey’s eyes now and the girl is fumbling over her apologies. The Hapan trader is watching the spectacle, having grown bored of idly chatting with the man beside her, a finely shaped eyebrow raised in concern. Rey winks at her. The woman is clever and catches on immediately. A conspiratorial smile blooms over her fine face.

 

Rey continues. “I don’t have time to frolic across the galaxy whenever one of my students can’t handle themselves.” She pauses, nearly shaking with the effort to sound properly displeased. If Zoya did look at her now she would be greeted with the sight of her master pink cheeked and  scrunching her nose in an effort not to laugh.

 

“Like I said, I’m busy and I don’t have time for this nonsense—I have stew waiting for me at home. Do you hear me, Zoya? _Nerf. Stew. Waiting. At. Home._ ”

 

Zoya stills. No longer apologizing, she slowly raises her amber eyes to glare at her master. It was no secret when she had lived and trained at the Solo homestead her master placed the promise of a filling meal above most things in her life. Her eye twitches, recalling a particularly awful training session in which she and the other pupils had run through the tall grasses and muddy shoreline chasing Mah’ruh Hares for their supper. They hadn’t been allowed the use of their sabers so as not to “potentially ruin the meat” as her master had put it. They were forced to catch the blasted and flighty creatures by hand. If she weren’t currently trapped on a shuttle, in the presence of other sentient lifeforms, she would have screamed.

 

“ _Master_ Solo.” She says blankly, all pretense of atonement seemingly sucked into the void of cold, dead space. “Must you torment me?”

 

Rey flashes her most cheeky grin before reaching her pointer finger out and taping her student’s forehead as though to say _I got you_.

 

“For as long as you insist upon calling me _master,_ even though you are no longer my apprentice, I will do as I _kriffing_ please, _Captain_ Zava. Now, stop with your apologies, sit down” ─she pats the cushioned seat beside her─ “and enjoy the rest of the trip with me.”

  


……………………………………

  


Lah’Kah Outpost is lively when they land. At least six other ships are docked in the small space with precious goods and supplies being brought up and down their entry ramps. Vendors are calling from their temporary stalls attempting to entice the crowd, offering everything from off-world delicacies, holograms filled with the latest news, and services not commonly acquired on the planet. Far in the distance the green hills glisten as streaming sunlight pours down from openings in the heavy clouds, further still the black cliffs are obscured by thick mist, only their jagged peaks jut upward and out over the dark sea.

 

Before Rey can step off the shuttle’s landing ramp and join the flow of life in the Outpost, someone lightly taps her shoulder. Turning, she sees the Hapes woman raise a hand in greeting to the pair.

 

“I am sorry to keep you a moment longer,” she says, lovely mouth curving into an enticing smile. “I couldn’t help but overhear, might you be Mistress Rey of the Rebel Alliance?”

 

Rey blinks in surprise. “I am Rey,” she replies. “Though I do believe the Rebel Alliance has long since been disbanded. Who are you?”

 

The woman’s smile is practically blinding now, her wide black eyes flecked with gold barely conceal her excitement. “Givari Tempst,” she offers. “Of the Hapes Consortium.”

 

“Hapes,” says Rey. “Closer than some, but still quite the trip to Lah’mu.”

 

Givari nods. “Quite. I come on behalf of the Queen Mother. She seeks any potential to further benefit from untapped trade worlds. We deal in gems mostly, but never shy away from what the soils of other worlds may have to offer.”

 

Glancing over Rey’s head she looks out over the humble, but happy outpost, dark eyes alight with the promise of potential. She is young, Rey decides, though it is difficult to tell with the Hapan people and their eerie beauty.

 

“The Queen Mother?” Rey questions. “That is a title I haven’t heard in quite some time. Tell me, Givari, does Tenel Ka still reign as Queen Mother?”

 

Givari stumbles back as her hand flies to her heart. “ _You would address the Queen Mother by her nam‐-”_

 

“I am glad,” Rey interrupts. “To hear that she still rules. I know that the Hapan people are not fond of Force sensitives, but she showed kindness to me once many years ago. When you see her, would you please give her a message for me? I apologize for the informality, but she will understand.”

 

“Y-yes, I would be delighted to,” replies Givari, perplexed by the newfound knowledge that Rey has spoken with the Queen Mother before.

 

“May the Force be with you, Tenel Ka Djo, Queen Mother of Hapes.” Rey’s face softens as she remembers the image of a woman, flaming red hair showing the first hints of gray, beaming at Rey with a shared knowing. “May we meet again, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps, in the flow of the Force.”

 

Rey turns to Zoya, the former student gazes back at her much like she did when they first met. As though her master is a puzzle she has yet to solve and understand. It is obvious that Rey’s confession of having met the Queen Mother is now an additional piece that Zoya will have to place in the puzzle. Rey smiles at her and timidly Zoya smiles back.

 

“This is where we part, my child.” She whispers, leaning in to place her bruised head against Zoya’s smooth brow. “There is purpose in death, dear one, just as there is in life. Protect those you can, but know that you must also protect yourself. Promise me you will do this.”

 

“I will.” Zoya steps back and nods. Rey can feel it, the Force moves pure and gently through her former pupil. A high chime sings out with heart wrenching beauty at the sureness of the girl’s response. The agony of her failure to protect innocents is still there deep within her, but the edges are smoothed so as not to wound it’s keeper. The weight of the past months finally take their hold and Rey wonders if she had ever truly felt this tired back in her life on Jakku. One’s own life was enough to bear, however, connecting the filaments of her own essence to many, many others at times made her nearly forty years seem like lifetimes upon lifetimes.

 

Rey turns back to Givari. “My home is always happy to welcome you, please come and eat with us before you depart from Lah’mu. My boys would be thrilled to meet you.”

 

She sidesteps the woman and with swift strides is off the shuttle ramp and flowing through the crowd. Not looking back she raises her arm in the air in a gesture of farewell. If she hurries she will make it in time to see the sun set.

 

Her pace quickens and she breaks free from the Outpost and walks the familiar black rock path. Her emotions sing through their bond, aimed towards the horizon, she can feel him, nearly sees him as he stands among the fields and crops that grow so well under his care. His own eyes scanning the path she now walks on.

 

_I’m home._

_I’m home._

_I’ve come home!_

  
  


_Welcome home._

  


Two standard hours later she stands atop the last ridge and at the edge of their property. The sun dips low on the horizon and below it the fields are scattered with the lights from the vaporators. The path leads down, cutting through the vibrant greenery like a black ribbon. At its base, peeking through the landscape is the pale dome roof of their home, no bigger than her hand from this distance. Steam rises from one of the vent ports and the lights dimly illuminate the area around the house.

 

Suddenly a stream of light bursts across the dark gravel around the building, a small figure darts out to stand in the light and stare up towards the ridge. It shouts and is quickly accompanied by another figure, though this one is larger. It too begins shouting when Rey is spotted. Both of them run up the road and closer towards her. Their cries of joy grow louder and louder as they descend upon her.

 

Rosh, despite being smaller, reaches her first and throws himself into her arms. Moments later Kiran is there as well. Rey is crying and kissing both of her sons all over their faces, holding them tightly to her. They smell like Lah’mu:  minerals and rich soil, salty sea and rain storms, woven fabric and mechanical grease. Soon her sons are holding her as she cries and laughs, delighting in their faces and how their words stumble over each others. Both eager to tell her about everything she had missed over the months; wanting her to relive every moment with them as though she had been there. Between them, mother and sons, the Force hums and flows with contentment. There is no anger, no loss, instead there is joy and love.

 

Below, Ben stands in the light of the open doorway, arms crossed as he watches. He is fine with patiently waiting for the three to make their way back down. Having made the same desperate run many times before when his wife had rounded the top of the ridge, refusing to spend even the few minutes it took to walk the path down apart from her. A few times, early on, he had waited at the Outpost for her to arrive. She had been surprised and pleased, but that quickly turned to embarrassment when a few of the locals had teasingly commented on it. It wasn’t shame she had felt, no, she was not ashamed of her choice in him. However, she had been alone for much of her life and wasn’t comfortable with their actions being commented on by outsiders. So, instead he waited at home for her to return. To lift up and spin around. To love. To keep. To exist together.

 

Soon she would be asked to leave again, perhaps he would go with her, most of the time though she went alone. The galaxy had need of what they considered to be _the last true Jedi_. However, for now she belonged to their boys. To their home. To Lah’mu. To him. Yes, Ben thinks, the galaxy could wait and be patient for once. It owed them that much at least.

 

………………………………………

  


After witnessing the impressive feat in which Rey simultaneously devoured the remaining Nerf stew they had set aside for her, three rolls of bread, two Jogan fruits, and four glasses of water. All of this while managing to have a full conversation with both Rosh and Kiran, holding his hand under the table throughout the meal, and not spilling a single drop of food... Ben believed he had never been more in love with his wife.

 

It was late when Rosh lay his head of messy curls down on the table. “I want to stay up,” he mumbles against the smooth surface. “But I am tired.”

 

Rey leans over and ruffles his curls with her hand. “Want me to tuck you in?” She asks hesitantly, fearful that maybe her baby has grown up too much while she was absent. Rosh immediately sits up and fumbles out of his chair. Tugging Kiran’s arm and yelling how they needed to wash up for bed so their mother could tuck them in. Kiran protesting that he was too old to be tucked in, yet not fighting off Rosh’s pawing hands with any real enthusiasm, before he too was up and following Rosh down the hall. Rey watches them go then glances over at her husband, eyebrow raised in silent question if he wanted to help.

 

“You go ahead,” Ben says. Standing, he moves towards the front door. “I’m certain they are sick of me at this point. I’ll be outside when you are done caging the beasts.”

 

…………………………………

 

Rey climbs the side stairs a little over half a standard hour later with a blanket clutched around her shoulders and a bottle of spiced ale. The dazzling night sky is obscured by clouds, only the dim lamps outside their home and the distant vaporator lights illuminate the darkness. She gazes up and frowns, wishing that for her first night home in months she would have been greeted by the rings of Lah’mu and not this oppressive darkness that threatens rain.

 

She is not truly angry with the impending weather though, no, she would never be angry for the gift of rain. Shortly after they had purchased their property on Lah’mu and finished building their homestead, after taking on their first apprentices at the insistence of the New Alliance, Rey had realized there was something wrong with her. She wasn’t able to keep her food down, had difficulty sleeping, and was continually exhausted.

 

One of the first apprentices, a gentle young human male by the name of Criss, had firmly suggested that Rey comm Ben and request he come home briefly while she recover from her illness. Both of her male students were deeply concerned about her. Later, Rey would laugh at how little they understood at that time.

 

“This is Rey,” she had said to the officer on the other end of the secure comm link. “I request a line to Ben Solo.”

 

“Certainly, ma’am.” She responded. “He is with the General at this moment, please hold while I transfer you.”

 

Rey only had to wait a few seconds before she heard Leia’s voice crackle to life. “Rey,” she said warmly. “So good to hear from you. I hope that things are going well where you are?”

 

“ _Mmm-hmm_.” Rey hummed, her nausea having flared up momentarily. It was enough of a pause to put the intuitive General on edge.

 

“Rey? Is something wrong, dear?” She asked, her voice veering from companionable to motherly. The sound of a chair creaking and shuffling filled the background on her end.

 

Breathing deeply to keep the sensation that she needed to gag at bay, Rey clenched her arms over her stomach. “I’m ill. I’ve been ill for a while. The students are worried. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I am calling to ask if it is possible to send Ben back to Lah’mu. If not Ben, then Finn or--”

 

“Rey, _sweetheart_ , slow down.” Suddenly came Ben’s worried voice over the comm. Vaguely Rey remembered that the officer had said he was with the General. She had meant to ask Leia for him, but the General’s motherly concern had distracted her. “When did you first begin feeling ill?”

 

Rey closer her eyes and tried to think. “A month, maybe two ago? Not long after you left. I wouldn’t be asking you to come back if I could handle it, but nothing is working and I can’t keep my food down.”

 

“Food?” Asked Leia.

 

“Rey, don’t worry. I’ll be on the first transport back to Lah’mu. Give me two or three days. Have Criss go to the Outpost and see if he can find a doctor.” Ben’s voice seems further away, like he is moving around the space he is in while talking. Rey can hear the sound of items and furniture being shuffled and opened. He’s probably packing as he speaks. Rey can’t help but grin at the thought of him whirling around the room while Leia sits calmly in the eye of his storm.

 

He continues issuing orders, “...if he can’t find a doctor then--”

 

“Rey.” Cuts in Leia’s calm voice. “When was the last time you experienced your...well, your monthly bleed?”

 

Rey pauses to consider this. Her monthly blood, which had always been erratic due to a childhood of malnourishment and stress, but which had restored itself after two years of plentiful food and rest, had not occured for two standard months she realized. Quickly she recounted the days on her fingers to make sure her number is correct before she replies. For a moment she considers why Leia would ask such a personal question, but she trusted the woman with her life and knew she would only ask if it were necessary. Having Ben there listening though made her a bit nervous.

 

“Um,” she murmurs. “About three months ago.”

 

There is a brief pause in which no sound comes from either end of the line. Rey almost checks to see if the signal is still connected, but pauses when she hears the General sigh deeply.

 

“ _Benjamin Organa Solo_ .” Leia hisses. There is a hollow sound of a smack and a deep yelp from their end. “I could kill you! Just like your father! Do you Solo men _ever think_ with the _right head_ or are you all so gun-sure and cocky that--” a few more hollow smacks ring out “--for once in your life--” two more smacks-- “ _you laserbrain son of mine!_ ”

 

“ _Mother!_ ” Shouts Ben. “Stop hitting me. _Ouch!_ Why are you _yelling_?”

 

“Because,” Leia yells back. “You’re going to be a father and you are _woefully unprepared!_ ”

 

……

 

Kiran was born during a rainstorm. Even through the pain and struggle, with Leia holding one hand and Ben the other, Rey was glad. She wanted their child to be born on a planet that rained freely and unexpectedly. A planet full of green and life. At the time she didn’t know what kind of mother she could be; she had no example to follow. If she could do one thing, just one thing right for her child, it would be to bring them into this galaxy on a lush planet that would nurture him rather than stifle him.

  


“Ben?” Rey calls out in the dark, squinting in the pale light. She hears shuffling and then he is beside her, arm on the small of her back, taking the ceramic glasses from her grasp and leading her to the center of the dome roof.

 

“Sit.” He orders and she obliges. Once situated, he lowers himself behind her so she is between his legs, her back against his chest. “Ah, what did you bring?”

 

Rey shakes a half empty bottle of dark gold liquid. “Corellian Ale.” She says. “I won it in a game against Finn and a few other officers.”

 

“I see,” he muses. “Though I hardly say a half empty bottle is a worthy prize.”

 

“Wasn’t half empty when I won it.” She says. Behind her Ben snorts indignantly. “Do not snort at me, _Solo_. I was gone for a while.”

 

Before she can argue with him more, he plucks the bottle from her hand, placing it down beside the glasses, and wraps his arms tightly around her. Pressing her even further into his chest as he nuzzles into her hair.

 

“ _I missed you_ ,” he breathes. “I missed holding you.”

 

Rey snorts this time, but offers no resistance and relaxes into his hold. “You,” she begins teasingly, “can calm yourself. I just returned and already you’re imagining _things_.”

 

“Hypocrite.” He hums with no real malice. Rey laughs.

 

“I realized something while landing. I’m not as young as I once was and this has been a weary assignment.” She reaches up and places a hand on his cheek. He leans into her touch. “Rest for tonight, _old man_. We need to properly celebrate Kiran’s eighteenth name day tomorrow and see to that broken vaporator he menti--”

 

Rey frowns. Tilting her head back to ensure Ben can see her displeased expression in the dim light. His only response is a raised eyebrow and a smile fleetingly touching the corners of his mouth. Around them their bond thrums with his thoughts and intentions. Rey feels her face warming.

 

“ _Old man?_ ” He drawls deeply in a tone that pricks at Rey’s memories of hands warmly entwined at they walk the black sand shoreline near their home. Hands threading through her hair and across her bare shoulders and spine. Training sessions in which weapons were tossed aside and their bodies crashed together, hands lifting her and holding her against the wall.

 

Rey laughs bright and clear, embarrassed and burning from the memories, before her husband catches her mouth with his own. Perhaps they aren’t quite so old yet, she thinks.

 

_I’m home._

 

_Welcome home, sweetheart._

  
  


………………………………………………

 

At Lah’Kah Outpost, the small town has quieted down for the night. A few people meander through the streets, a few vendors are packing up their stalls, while the only drinking hole on the planet is open and full of locals and visitors alike. Gossip and liquor flow equally as friends and strangers talk amongst each other.

 

Givari’s flirting with the barkeep has paid off and she gleefully sips on a free glass of Koja-rum, it burns her nose but is oddly sweet. She is far more appreciative of the fine wines back home, but decides to live a little on her trip. Turning to whisper to the barkeep who has been hovering close ever since he had been on the receiving end of her sultry gaze; a heavy hand roughly clasps her shoulder. She abruptly turns and comes face to face with the Lorridian man she had spoken with earlier on the shuttle.

 

“Can I help you?” She asks, trying to brush off his hand. He holds tighter. Givari suddenly becomes very conscious of her blaster strapped to her hip beneath her short travel cloak.

 

“Come. Now. I must show you.” He says. Eyes glazed over and unfocused. They gaze just past her head.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The effort seems to pain him to repeat himself. “Come. N-now. I-I must show you. Come.”

 

He had been so kind and happy as they had chatted earlier. She wonders if something must have happened, or perhaps he was hurt. “Of course,” she replies, turning to the barkeep, “please save my drink, my acquaintance needs assistance. I’ll be right back.”

 

She hops off the stool and follows him out of the bar and into the street. The sky is dark from cloud cover, the smell of rain is heavy in the air, and far off in the distance lightning leaps from the heavens to strike the land. The Lorridian man keeps walking, stumbles slightly before righting himself and turns down one of the side roads that leads to the spacecraft landing zone.

 

“Sir,” Givari asks. Hiding the concern in her voice as she places a hand over her blaster. “I regret that I did not ask your name earlier. I am Givari Tempst of Hapes. You are?”

 

He quickly rounds the corner a few paces ahead of her and she follows after him, but the moment she does so he isn’t there, or rather, she doesn’t see him for a second. On the ground a few feet in front of her, he lays crumpled with limbs jutting out in odd angles. In the dim light of the street lamps she can see his eyes are open and blankly staring at the sky, a dark line trickles from his gaping maw.

 

Givari opens her mouth to scream when her throat seizes and no sound escapes. It takes her a second to realize she can’t breathe either. Out of the corner of her eye two shadows detach from the darkness and loom beside her. Panicking, she claws at her throat in vain effort to fight off the invisible grasp that chokes her.

 

“ _Do as I say and you may live._ ” One of the voices demands.

 

Instantly the pressure is gone and she frantically sucks in the night air, coughing and sputtering she falls to her knees in the grass. Her stomach wrenches and she throws up its contents. Inside her head a voice that is not her own is screaming, threatening to tear apart her skull. She moans in pain.

 

The voice continues, the only sound to break through the screams inside her skull. _“You will accept her invitation and go dine with them.”_

 

Givari stills. She looks up at the figure, wide dark eyes glazed over and unseeing. “I will…” she repeats.

 

_“You will accept her invitation and go dine with them.”_

 

“I will accept their invitation and go dine with them.”

 

The screams have stopped. The voice is so peaceful. How could she not listen?

 

_“Then you will take your blaster…”_

 

“I will take my blaster.”

 

 _“And kill them all.”_ It finishes.

 

“I will kill them all.” She agrees.

 

“ _Good girl,_ ” the voice praises. “ _Such a good girl_.”

 

Givari smiles and stands. Her throat is scratched and bloody from her own nails, but she doesn’t feel the sting. Instead she turns and walks past the broken body of the Lorridian man whose name she never knew. Slowly makes her way through the Lah’Kah Outpost, past the bar she had been in minutes ago, and down the road. Stumbling and falling in the dark as she walks the unfamiliar steps, but she knows where she is going and the voices in her head urge her on. With every fall she scrapes her knees, palms, and arms, yet she still stands and continues forward.

 

Smiling even as it begins to rain and lightning dances through the sky above her.

 

She smiles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, as always a massive thank you to you, dear reader.
> 
> This chapter was difficult for me to write, and quite frankly, I have never written something like it before. I hope that it pleases you as much as it exasperated me. I tweaked it so many times that I finally had to commit and post it. I feel like if I keep at it then I will lose what I was originally imagining.
> 
> I took some liberties with the use of the Force. However, it falls under the category of mind control.
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated. If you're shy, but you still enjoyed it, please hit that kudos button. 
> 
> And thank you to MelodyoftheRiver for beta reading. A dedicated student and she still manages to find the time to check me. Seriously, she is a fearsome creature. I am always in awe of her talent.
> 
> Edit: WOAH! Sorry about the wonky formatting. I'm not sure what happened, but I corrected it.

 

 

Doing his best not to wake Rosh, Kiran yanks yesterday’s dark grey pants over his long legs, runs a worn leather belt through the loops, and pulls a clean linen shirt over his head before tip-toeing to the door. It opens, and he steps through.

 

He’s forgetting something.

 

The saber hilt by his bed flings itself across the dark bedroom and into his open hand. The door slides shut, and Kiran stands alone in the hallway, panel lights brightening at his presence, softly casting the cream-colored walls with warm light. He clips the saber to his belt, the slight weight on his hip is comforting.

 

The house is silent while he fills a water canteen and shoves one of the rolls from last night’s dinner into his mouth. Ungracefully, he chews the chunk of bread as he puts on his boots, then taps the exit key into the door panel.

 

Chilled morning air greets him when he steps out. All around him verdant fields glint in the early light; reflected from the dew that covers the tall grasses and crops. Wisps of faint mist gleam and disperse at the touch of the day’s first pale rays. The only sounds in the stillness are birdcall from the cloudless sky and his steps crunching on the worn gravel path which winds around the house and down the hill. He makes his way past the row of apprentice rooms, their windows dark against the pale plaster of their exteriors, patiently awaiting the next batch of Force sensitives.

 

Stepping into the clearing behind the apprentice houses that have served as both school and combat arena, Kiran pauses. Across the well-worn field, perched on top of one of the many flat boulders that encircle the space, sits his mother. Her back faces him but Kiran knows she is aware of his presence, although she makes no move to acknowledge him.

 

“Mom?” He calls out, closing the distance between them. “What are you doing out here so early?”

 

It is early. No more than half an hour past standard six on the one morning he was certain she would have been in bed until boredom or hunger set in. The homestead requires everyone to share in the work and apply their skills daily, however, rest and recovery is a necessary truth even on a backwater planet such as Lah’mu. Still, deep down he is thrilled to see her out here early; his mother, real and present after having been away for so long.

 

Running a hand through his hair he can’t help but smile up at her. She looks like a statue: her back straight, chin tilted down, hands carefully placed on either knee.  Only the frail gusts of wind occasionally stir strands of hair around her face and breathe life into her stillness. Kiran notices just how long it has grown, the length nearly touching the very rock she sits on, unlike his father’s though, there is not a strand of gray to be found. The image is serene, possibly beautiful, but completely unnatural considering the subject. His mother isn’t one for quietly sitting and pondering the flow of the Force.

 

“I thought you’d be asleep until mid-day at least.” He adds, staring openly at her.

 

She cracks an eye open. “Desperate times call for desperate measures."

 

"Is something the matter?” Kiran asks, brows furrowing with concern.

 

“Your father snores when he drinks,” she replies, dryly, but it is an unconvincing answer.

 

"We know,” he says. “We can hear him. That's not really the reason though, is it?"

 

Unfolding herself, she stands. Turning around to look at Kiran, she smiles, "Don't you try to get inside my head as well. One intruder is enough."  
Stretching her arms above her head, she eyes him up and down, spotting the saber handle clipped to his belt. “So what do you say, want to break in that pretty little lightsaber of yours?”

 

Kiran rubs his arm and ducks his head to hide his face, “You remembered that, huh?”

 

Rey rolls her shoulders. “Of course,” she chirps. “How did your father put it? _Ah_ , yes, I’ve been waiting for this day since you were conceived, right?”

 

Kiran groans in response, however, he is unnerved by the statement in more ways than one. She was off planet when his old man had said that, how could she have known? Even worse, _why in the kriff was she repeating it?_ Rey, laughing, smacks him across the back and gently pushes him out into the sparring field. Giving him no time to deeply consider the thought.

 

The ground is bare, no vegetation grows in the space, it never had the chance to. For years this area has been used daily to teach the individuals who come to learn from his parents. For some that means understanding the Force and how it flows through them, to gain understanding and knowledge, yet for most it means learning how to harness that power and find balance within it. However, for all who stood here before, it is the difficult lesson of acceptance they must learn. To embrace the unifying bond between everything that has ever been, is, or will be. The Force can be used by those who sense it, but it is not theirs to own, it is merely an extension of themselves. An extension of the universe.

 

On the field some spots are scorched. Where lightsabers briefly touched or embedded themselves into the ground from wayward slashes. Pin pricks and gaping lines, somehow the sears are more vivid against the dark ash rock that comprises Lah’mu. The earth is marred, scraped, cut, and bruised from all who have stood, meditated, and fought here. Yet it is solid, unyielding.

 

“Grab two practice blades,” she orders. “Warm up first.”

 

They both stretch before positioning themselves a few paces apart. Kiran unconsciously moves a few steps behind his mother as to better see her, which is how he has begun his warm-ups since he was a child and novice to combat. Back and to the side; to watch and follow through the stances. This time, however, Rey whistles at him, pointing to come stand beside her. Kiran creeps forward, practice blade him hand, to stand side by side with the master. Instantly, he is highly conscious of his mother’s signature in the Force. It surrounds and expands from her.

 

It is a war drum. Steady and heavy beats flow from within her and ripple through the Force. The effect of which should alarm him, but instead lulls him, the colors and textures of the landscape sharpen with each beat. His heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm and his limbs loosen as though soothed by invisible hands.

 

“Now,” she says, her voice in tandem with the steady beats. “Let’s warm up with _Shii-Cho_.”

 

In unison they raise their makeshift weapons and thrust forward. Downward strike. Slicing side to side. Whirling it above their heads and across their bodies. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until Kiran can feel the first beads of sweat forming on his back.

 

This is good, he thinks. This is familiar. Having had only himself to really practice with over the past months, most of which was spent teaching Rosh, he worried he was growing rusty not having a sparring partner who could challenge and push him. Rosh tried, but he was still young and only two years into combat training. The kid had mastered _Shii-Cho_ and _Makashi_ , but that proved less of a challenge when placed against Kiran. Still, after a particularly rough session the difference in skill hadn’t stopped Rosh from manipulating the Force and tossing Kiran like a rag doll out of frustration.

 

Their father was another story. He taught using theory. Observing closely and guiding with verbal commands, moving limbs into proper form, and constructive feedback. His father never physically duels the students, no one, only their mother. Kiran had asked years ago why his father wouldn’t help him train, his mother’s saber form was one thing, all whirling, speed, and swift blows. Elegant and violent, but the galaxy wasn’t comprised of only her fighting style. Wasn’t it best for him to train with as many people as possible? At one time he had been angry with his father. That hesitation to train his flesh and blood, to give him an understanding of a different sort of strength. It would take a true fool to not recognize it. Hidden beneath the lose dark gray clothing, intelligent gaze, and outward serenity, it was there, tempered and tranquil.

 

Power.

 

A touch darker than his mothers, more savage, but undeniable. It only wakes when his parents train, when his darkness crashes against her light, thrashing, edges blurring and reshaping in a dizzying array of forms. Within it all, at the center, the core, with a gentle violence, they dance to the drums of war. The only song they both know so well.

 

When Kiran had asked, nearly begged for his father to teach him as well. The old man hadn’t looked at him when he replied after painful silence, his voice deep.

 

_I refuse to raise a lightsaber to my child._

 

Kiran never asked again for his father to spar with him. There was something in the old man’s voice, the inflection in his tone, that spoke of a life best left in the past. A man his father once was.

 

He feels before he sees—without thinking Kiran shields himself from the blow. Another to the right. He ducks to avoid the third and leaps backwards, sliding across the gravel. In front of him his mother shifts upright and tosses the practice blade aside, clattering across the field harmlessly.

 

“If you have time to daydream,” she chides, holding her hand out towards the boulder he had found her on. “Then let’s make this more of a challenge.”

 

Her saber shoots from its resting place and into her hand. The hilt is longer than his own; spanning the length of his mother’s arm. Specially forged from coveted _beskar_ iron, the metal adds little to the weight of the blade, however, it is strong enough to even withstand direct blows from a lightsaber. More so, it wasn’t a simple lightsaber, rather a saberstaff and twice as lethal when both blades were ignited. Kiran, focused on the slow spin of the hilt in his mother’s hands, realizes they now have company.

 

“Mama,” calls out Rosh, completely unbothered by the scene. “Good morning!”

 

Kiran’s head snaps in the direction of the noise. No more than twenty paces away his brother crouches on top of one of the boulders. Still in his white linen night shirt and pants. Dark hair impossibly messy as he bites into one of the Jogan fruits he adores so much. Their father stands leaning against the boulder Rosh occupies. Watching the scene with mild interest.

 

Rey spreads her arms wide in welcome. “Good morning to you, my _little one_ ,” she cries back with motherly affection. “Did you sleep well?”

 

He vigorously nods, chewing his breakfast. Dark curls bouncing with the movement.

 

“Rosh could feel your battle aura,” offers their father. “He and I have a little wager going, so naturally we couldn’t miss out on seeing such a show.”

 

Rosh swallows. “Yep. Twenty credits.”

 

“No way, kid.” Kiran shoots back. “You have, what, five credits to your name?”

 

Rosh frowns back, but Kiran ignores it. They’ve been making small wagers on combat sessions for as long as they’ve had change in their pockets. Sometimes on the pupils, much to a few disparaging looks, but mostly on their parents sparring sessions. Those were the best and often ended in stalemates, fierce equals even in battle, rarely did one overpower or outmaneuver the other. However, when they did, their sons would scream and shout as though they had been the victor. Counting credits into each other’s palms before skittering away to avoid capture.

 

“Fifty credits,” their father corrects. “He ran those errands for me last month and earned them.” Kiran shoots the man a withering look. “Besides,” he continues, “the bet is between us. No need to worry yourself.”

 

“On what?” Their mother asks. Her husband winks at her but says nothing more.

 

“Keep your secrets, old man,” Kiran snaps. “Just be quiet.”

 

They watch as Kiran stomps a few paces away and turns back with the hilt of his saber in hand. Without another word, he ignites his saber and raises it above his head, angling the white blade downward behind him.

 

His mother quirks an eyebrow. “ _Djem So?_ Interesting.”

 

In response she shifts one foot forward, gravel crunching, and ignites her own saber. A blade to match his own erupts from the hilt pressed against her back. The steady hum of their white blades the only sound in the clearing. She makes no other move, choosing to take the defensive. To wait. Kiran tenses, gripping the saber tightly, wondering why she has chosen to fight with just half of her weapon. Wondering if she doesn’t think he is capable enough to handle both. The possibility strokes a fire in his gut.

 

He sprints, closing the distance, and leaps high. Bringing his saber down hard where she stands, motionless. The blades crash and burn. Shoving back, she parries, whirling away to put space between them. He’s already on her. Slashing upwards, across, and down again. His mother is a blur, always just out of sight but never gone. Never quite within range of his strikes. She uses the extended length of her hilt to force him back even as he presses forward. He’s taller than her now, his reach longer, but she’s quicker. Relentless, he rains down blow after furious blow, pushing her closer to the edge of the field. If I can corner her, Kiran thinks, then I have the advantage. Her longer saber becomes a hindrance when space is limited and maneuverability less likely.

 

His mother pivots and Kiran crosses his saber behind just in time to block. Straining against the force and heat of the crackling blades at his back. For a heartbeat the two are locked then his mother kicks him, sending him stumbling forward. He rolls across the sharp gravel and pops back up. His back now only feet away from the edge of the boulders that encircle the field. Right in the very trap he had tried to lure her into. _Kriffing hell_.

 

She quickly twirls the blade in her hand and launches after him. Kiran blocks high, using brute strength he forces both their lightsabers down, another scorch mark added to the arena. He pins them, panting from the effort it takes. He only has one shot—

 

“Don’t get mad,” he shouts before shoving her backwards. Briefly her eyes flicker with confusion and then it’s over.

 

Kiran, using the forward momentum from shoving her, rolls low and strikes upward.

 

The thrust doesn’t hit. Muscle memory and reflexes save him, but his face bears the brunt of searing heat as he blocks his mother’s second blade. Wild fear wraps its fingers around his heart at the sight of her. Her lightsaber is inches away from his exposed skin and bearing down on him, teeth bared in a snarl, yet the worst is her eyes. His mother’s eyes, normally warm in their depth, were narrowed, cold and far away.

 

The image shifts, immediately she disengages the saberstaff and steps back. Arms hanging at her sides. 

 

Rosh is screaming and cheering on the sidelines. “That was amazing! You did it! I can’t believe you _actually_ did it.”

 

“I lost,” Kiran manages to say as he shakes off the fear. Disengaging his saber as well, he stands and brushes his pants off. Wincing, he notices that his hands and arms are covered in angry pink lines, some beading with bright, red blood. Right, he thinks, sharp gravel.

 

His mother reaches out, but his father is already there pulling bacta patches from his dark coat pocket. “You did well,” he murmurs as he gently cleans and applies the strips on the worst of the scrapes.

 

“I agree,” his mother adds, having stepped forward. Kiran can’t quite place her expression. “That was wonderful.”

 

“No, I lost the moment you fully ignited your saberstaff,” he confesses, wincing as the last stinging patch is applied. It doesn’t linger and almost immediately a cooling sensation follows. If he were to watch long enough he would see the skin heal. “I blocked it, sure, but there are a number of ways you could have taken me out.”

 

“It is because your mother was forced to fully use her saber that you won,” his father says.

 

Kiran exhales, ready to argue when realization dawns on him. He can count the number of pupils on one hand he has seen take on their master with her weapon fully ignited. Even fewer have bested her. The only other person has been his father. Eyes darting back and forth between his parent’s faces, his mouth opens and closes, trying to form thoughts into words. Giving up on the effort, he takes a step back and then another, before slapping a hand over his mouth and shrieks.

 

His parents watch as their oldest son takes off on a sprinting victory lap around the sparring field. Jumping, whooping, and screaming like a feral bantha.

 

“Papa,” Rosh yells over his brother’s nonsense. “You owe me twenty credits!”

 

“To be paid in full, I assure you,” Ben calls back.

 

Rey nudges him. “Fess up.”

 

Ben watches as Kiran, adrenaline obviously now gone, crashes on the ground in front of Rosh. The younger boy leaps down and kneels beside his brother, clearly excited and bouncing, but their conversation is muffled from this distance.

 

“Just a small wager,” he replies. “My odds were on you winning or disarming him. Rosh’s was on Kiran forcing you to fight him in earnest; to engage both blades. I was worried for a moment, but he blocked—" When he looks back at Rey, her hands are balled into fists and refuses to meet his gaze.

 

“Rey?” Silence. “Sweetheart?”

 

“I understand now,” she says, eyes drifting to her sons. Rosh holds out a hand to help Kiran stand, taking it, Kiran pulls him down and tickles him. The boy’s laughter and protests ring out in the clearing. “Why you won’t spar with them. How it feels to see your child’s face when you—” she stops herself.

 

Ben doesn’t reply for a time. Only wraps his long arm around her small shoulders and tucks her into his side. She leans into him, he can feel her turmoil through their bond, and he holds her tighter. The boys are both up now. Kiran picking small rocks from Rosh’s hair and patting spots of dirt from his sleep clothes. Rosh pays no mind, instead he holds his brother’s lightsaber, examining it curiously.

 

“You do not carry that burden,” he says slowly, ticking off the words in his mind. “You never will.”

 

“Ben, I—"

 

“Our sons will grow wiser and stronger”, he continues, resolute. “Walk their own paths. You and I will grow old. They will bury us one day, far from now, and we shall exist together in the Force. As it should be.”

 

“As it should be,” she echoes like a phantom of the past. Then, defiantly, “It will be.”

 

…………………………………………

 

 

It is still early morning when Rey, hands on hips, blankly stares at her husband. He is seated on one of the speeders they built together years ago, hand extended for her to grab so he can pull her up. In the back of her mind she notes that he took the time to wash up and change into a more fitted and finer linen shirt, as well as a matching woven overcoat. All neatly held together with a thin leather and twine belt. Rey realizes the possibility that he hasn’t been to town in months and had prepared for the occasion.

 

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a _kriffing_ date, _Solo_ ,” she says.

 

His mouth twitches but betrays nothing else. He holds firm.

 

“I would have changed if you told me this was a date.”

 

“You look lovely, _sweetheart_.” He replies, extending his hand an inch closer.

 

“Your hair is brushed.”

 

“I always take care to groom myself appropriately.”

 

“You shaved.”

 

Ben sighs and leans over, reaching to grab her arm and haul her up if need be. She swats his hand away.

 

“For Force's sake, woman,” he says. “Yes. I thought that it would be enjoyable, in addition to picking up the vaporator parts, if we could spend some time in town. Walk around. Share a meal together.”

 

She takes a step closer. “So, a date?”

 

“ _Rey_ ,” Ben pleads. “You were gone for half a standard year. I don’t know when you’ll leave again, please, let me lay the vast wealth of Lah’Kah Outpost at your feet. Let me have the honor of taking _your highness on a kriffing date_.”

 

Rey’s face cracks into a smile. She can’t quite remember the reason he ever referred to her with such a noble title in the first place; only that he had been immensely frustrated when he had said it.

 

_Your highness_

 

An odd title for a former scavenger from the wastelands of Jakku. The first time he uttered those words, Ben had gone silent the moment it slipped from his mouth. Shoulders sagging, he stared into space for a long moment before rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Eyes screwed shut, he laughed pitifully, muttering how he understood now, before he kissed Rey on her furrowed brow and walked away.

 

“I want to drive,” Rey counters. Ben opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. “And I accept your invitation. It’s a date.”

 

As Ben pulls her up to sit in front on the speeder, Rosh rushes over to say goodbye. Early morning and already he has smears of grease on his freckled face.

 

“When are you going to be back?” He asks.

 

“Before sundown,” Ben says. “You and Kiran are on your own for mid-day meal. See that the first four rows of Vidak sprouts are harvested today.”

 

Rosh nods. “We’ll do that after we patch Korb. If  Miss Gidah has any pastries, would you bring some home?”

 

“Only if you two harvest those rows,” Ben quips. “I don’t keep you fed and paid for indolence.”

 

Rosh rolls his eyes, salutes his father mockingly, and races off to find his brother. Rey punches in the activation code, the speeder whirrs to life. As she deftly laces her hair into a single pleat over her shoulder, Ben curls one arm around her waist and they’re off. She takes them down one of the side roads, away from the main route, but closer to the sea. Ben can feel her delight when she spots the white cresting waves, the salty air nipping at their skin, she angles the speeder as close to the water as possible without disrupting the gravity thrusters keeping them in the air. They fly in comfortable silence. Enjoying the scenery together. Enjoying being together.

 

………………………………………… 

 

An hour later Kiran is elbows deep in grease working on Korb in the garage. A few rodents having made the droid their nesting place during its recharge last night, the beasts chewed through several wires and caused a minor malfunction. The helper droid looks on, beeping with concern, as Kiran carefully tapes off an exposed wire in its core circuitry.

 

“I know, buddy, I know.” Kiran responds. “I’m not mad. Just need to make sure you’re all patched up before we go help Rosh, yeah?”

 

Korb titters once more, lowering its metal head in apology.

 

“Rosh isn’t mad either,” says Kiran gently. “He could never be mad at you. Besides, does him good to pull crops on his own every once and awhile.”

 

Outside Kiran hears scattering gravel and sliding shoes. “Kiran!” Yells Rosh.

 

“See,” Kiran says to the droid. “He’s here to check on you—in here, kid!”

 

Rosh bursts into the garage, hands covered in mud and grasping a freshly pulled sprout. Kiran nearly comments on what the rush is when he sees his brother’s face. He immediately stands and places his hands on Rosh’s heaving shoulders.

 

“Hey, hey,” he says. “Look at me. Breathe. _Rosh, look at me._ What’s wrong?”

 

Rosh inhales shallow gulps of air as he points out the open garage port way, towards the fields. Kiran’s attention shoots towards the opening when he notices the unmistakable sound of crunching gravel. Their parents aren’t due back for hours.

 

“She—” Rosh heaves, gulping down air.

 

“She?” Kiran asks, whispering the words. “Who's out there, Rosh?”

 

Rosh’s eyes lock on Kiran’s. Large, far too large, deep and dark. Glassy with unshed tears. His brother is shaking under his hold. This isn’t just the fear of a child. No, Rosh is shaken to his core, the terror coming from inside him, from within the Force he is so delicately attuned to. Outside the footsteps on gravel grow louder, the pace slow and lumbering.

 

Kiran shoves Rosh behind him and unclips his saber. He can feel it now, the sensation, the dark miasma in the air that must have alerted his brother in the first place. His gut coils as though he needs to wretch, to vomit up a sickness within him. No, not sickness, not quite. He can’t place it. The sensation is too unnatural.

 

Rosh clutches the back of Kiran’s shirt. “She’s covered in blood,” he murmurs. Kiran barely hears him through the roar in his ears. Every one of his senses strained on the portal door. The need to gag beating against him.

 

The footsteps stop. Kiran’s thumb rests on his saber’s ignition switch.

 

“H-hello,” calls a garbled voice. “He—” sputtering “hello?”

 

“In here.” Kiran says, holding out hope that he is wrong, that Rosh is overreacting, and it is just a neighbor come to visit. Silence.

 

She steps into view of the opening. Behind him, Rosh stifles a scream in his hand, his small fingers digging into Kiran’s back.

 

What stands in the opening, staring back at them, will haunt Kiran for as long as he lives. Dark blood oozes from numerous gashes on her body. Her knees, legs, and arms bear the worst of the wounds. As though she had fallen and stood back up repeatedly. He can see them through the rips in her once fine clothing. He swears there is white showing through the largest of the gashes on her leg, he doesn’t dwell on what it is. She stares at them with black eyes nested among seeping wounds and dirt that color her once lovely face. Eyes that don’t quite see them through the glaze. Her chin is busted and showing signs of bruising. It’s her neck though, that causes Kiran to ignite his lightsaber and shove Rosh further back into the garage.

 

Her neck is broken.

 

Angled awkwardly, her head rests on her shoulder, lolling around as she stumbles to keep standing. The Force moves around her slowly, painfully, it falls from her in clumps. As though rotting away from her form. Unnatural, Kiran thinks, it moves unnaturally through her.

 

“Ch…ildren,” she spits. Flecks of black blood spray from her mouth, dotting the garage floor.

 

“Leave.” Kiran orders. Behind him Rosh is sobbing. “There is no one here for you.”

 

“Children,” she repeats. “Her…chil—children.”

 

“ _I said leave_ _!_ ” Kiran shouts.

 

With a jerking hand she pushes aside her cloak to reveal a blaster hooked to her belt, pitifully she paws at it with broken and bloody fingers.

 

“Kill,” she gurgles.

 

“Stop, please,” Kiran begs. Despite everything, she is somehow still alive, wretched, but alive. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let me help.”

 

“I have…kill.” She unclasps the blaster and raises it to Kiran’s head. The shot never fires.

 

The scent of burning flesh is not familiar to Kiran. He has seen what lightsabers can do: small burns from sparring, the pink marks indicative of a blade striking too close. Never this though, never quite like this.

 

His saber sputters and pops, embedded nearly to the hilt in her jerking and twitching form. It erupts from between her shoulder blades. Broken arms violently spasm as her insides boil and cauterize. Kiran screams, whether from rage or fear he can’t be certain, when he draws the saber out. She crumples onto the gravel. Black eyes unblinking, single mindedly she claws for the blaster on the ground beside her.

 

Kiran slashes once more, another dark gash to mar the planet. Her head rolls and lightly bounces before coming to rest, her slack, bloody face stares at her body. At him, her murderer.

 

Without thinking Kiran drags his sobbing brother out of the garage. He leads him around her—that thing’s— body and towards the house. Korb shrills after them, using the Force Kiran slams the garage door back down into place. It will have to do to protect the droid for now. They must get to the other speeder parked by the house. They have to get the _kriffing hell_ away from here and find their parents.

 

He almost doesn’t see them at first. Dotted along the ridge, the path down, and coming towards their home. People. Or what should have been people, some he recognizes, others he doesn’t know. He refuses to look too hard at their faces. All of them resemble the body of the girl down in front of the garage.

 

“Rosh,” hisses Kiran. “Get the speeder.”

 

The younger boy rushes towards the vehicle hovering a few feet from their home as Kiran strides forward, saber poised and ready to take down the closest one. He can do this. Quickly he counts them, seven, only seven. Slow and wounded. It doesn’t matter that they are still alive, not if their goal is the same as the first’s. He can do this. _He has to do this._

 

Behind him, shrieking metal and sparks rip him from his concentration, Rosh screams as the speeder crumples in on itself. Kiran whips around in time to see the mutilated speeder tossed through the air, slamming into the side of their home. Exploding in a shower of fire and stone. Rosh, caught at the edge of the fireball, hands shielding his face, is launched back. He crashes hard and slides jerkily across the ground. Debris pelting his small, un-shielded body.

 

“Rosh!” Kiran screams, but his brother doesn’t respond. “Kid, get up!”

 

He too is slammed down to the ground. Air forced out of his lungs. Invisible fingers crushing his windpipe. He can’t breathe. Can’t reach Rosh.

 

A shadow looms over him. The edges of Kiran’s vision begin to blur as he chokes.

 

 _“Good child, brave child,”_ the shadow coos.

 

He can’t breathe. Can’t break free. Darkness seeping into the edges of his vision.

 

_“Sleep now.”_

 

He’s dying.

 

_“Sleep.”_

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Devil Has His Eyes On You, Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the late posting of this chapter. I lost half of it at one point and then work kicked into high gear. If you're still here reading please know I adore you and appreciate you sticking with me. Thank you!
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy this chapter and please leave kudos or feedback. It makes my day, week, and month. For real.
> 
> As always, I owe MelodyoftheRiver half my soul now. She is a busy student in her own right and still finds time to beta read for me like a boss. Go check her out here and on Tumblr!
> 
> :)

 

**Lah'Kah Outpost**

 

 

Nestled in a dipping valley, tucked within plush, low lying greenery, sits the largest town on the planet. For those coming from the core worlds, looking out of their ships as they prepare to land, the sight does little to inspire. Stark cream-colored plaster buildings dot across the valley, sporadic in their size and shape, they tightly coil around the winding main road that feeds between them. A dark vein leading to the center of town where the handful of permanent buildings stand surrounded by a sea of covered stalls. Each one manned by locals and off-world traders alike.  Each shouting over the other to draw attention to their wares, the plain spun cloth secured over their stalls punctuated by exotic colors and shimmering metal or glass meant to catch the eye. Only those selling purified water, drawn in from the dozens of water farms, keep their display simple. They have no need to do otherwise. All citizens of Lah’mu will seek them out eventually.

 

Amidst the bustle, the shouts, the children underfoot, the smell of food wafts through the cool air. Roasting nerf meat on spits, sizzling nuts over an open flame, succulent off-world fruits, crisp salted vegetables on skewers, and flaky delicate pastries drenched in sweet Naboo honey. Lah’Kah is eclectic and ever changing, the variety of her visitors and inhabitants a nod to her brief history. Even if there is rain or sun, the Lah’Kah Outpost is always a hum of activity.

 

So, when Rey and Ben make it to town, it is immediately evident that something is wrong. Despite the warmth of what promises to be a lovely day, very few people are walking about. None of the stalls in Trader’s Square are occupied, their temporary shelves bare or covered. The air is devoid of mouthwatering scents and the sound of bargainers and heckling. No children dart between individuals and stalls alike. Rey finds herself struggling to recall the last time she had seen it shut down like this. Brushing her hand against a burgundy hanging, finely embroidered with blue thread to declare the trader’s name and goods, none of which occupy it, she turns to look back at Ben.

 

They lock eyes, a silent exchange shared through their gaze, before he joins her and together they make their way closer to the center of the outpost.

 

Further in, the few permanent buildings that make up the center of the outpost are locked up and dark. Above the shops, in the apartments, Rey spots a pale face peering out one of the windows. The figure disappears, and slams shut the shutter before Rey even has a chance to raise her hand in greeting.

 

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, far too aware of how her voice travels in the silence. “What in the galaxy has happened?”

 

Ben is only half listening. All his senses and then some are focused on their surroundings. Turning left, he squints his eyes, staring down an adjacent road. Quickly glancing back over his shoulder before coming to a decision.

 

“This way,” he says, placing his hand on the small of Rey’s back to direct her. “I hear voices.”

 

They walk a few more yards, past the only bar on this side of the planet— it too is dark, no music or patron’s voices roaring from its interior— and spot the source of noise down one of the narrow paths leading to the landing pads. A large crowd has formed, and the air is thick with fear. Moving closer to the edge, individual voices rise over the fretful murmurs of the group. Somewhere within, a sobbing voice can be heard piercing the dull tones of the crowd.

 

“—need to organize and locate the damned off-worlder _who did this!_ ” Shouts one of them.

 

“We must not be so hasty,” cuts in a calm, gravelly voice. “If we don’t maintain order then this will very well turn into a witch hunt. I won’t stand for it.”

 

Much of the crowd murmurs in agreement, not all though. They stop at the edge of the crowd.

 

“I can’t see,” Rey says, straining on her toes. “What is happening?”

 

The words are hardly out of her mouth when a man in front of her whips around to stare. He is finely dressed and obviously local, though Rey can’t quite place his face or name. However, it is the look in his eyes causes Ben to immediately step in-between them, a physical barrier between her and the seething gaze.

 

“ _You!_ ” He hisses, causing several others to turn and see what the commotion is. “I know it was you who did this. Only _one of your kind_ would be so ruthless and...and…unnatural!”

 

“Happened on the same day you came back,” another adds, a young mechanic with pale thinning hair that Rey recognizes. “We all saw you stepping off that ship. Odd coincidence, don’cha think?”

 

The first man continues, jabbing his finger at Ben’s chest. “I never liked it. Never liked you, your odd family, or the strangers who came looking for you. Wrong, all of it. We all know what your kind are, don’t we?” He cocks his head to glance over his shoulder at the crowd. “Chase them out, I told Des Mar, chase them out before they get us just like they did the Republic.”

 

“You did now, did you?” Comes the gravelly voice from deeper within the crowd. Without a word the group parts to make way for the speaker. A man in his late sixties, his white hair cropped short, tanned skin stretched thin across the bones of his face, evidence of a life spent struggling under a blazing sun. With steel eyes he stares down the other two, silencing them. “As I recall Pulk, last time we spoke, I told you to _shut your damn mouth_. About what, I can’t remember, been too long—don’t make me to tell you to shut your mouth again.”

 

He pauses, eyeing the man as though daring him to speak. After a moment he turns back to the crowd. “Citizens,” he begins. “I understand your fear, but I will not have that fear being used against our own, and the traders who are with us, without just reason. Vebi Tan—”

 

“Yes, sir,” a woman with delicate tattoos lining the features of her face responds from within the crowd.

 

“See to it that this area is blocked off and all trade temporarily suspended,” Des Mar orders. “Everyone else, finish your business and return to your homes until further notice. Solos, with me.”

 

“You heard Governor Del Mar,” shouts Vebi Tan. “Go home until further notice.” Several individuals, dressed in the same draped uniform as she, move in tandem to break apart the uneasy crowd. Urging them down the alley and away from the shuttle zone.

 

“Force witch,” spits the pale haired man at Rey before he melts into the receding group. Ben moves to follow him, but Rey clutches his arm, keeping him anchored.

 

“Ben, Rey, pleasure to see you,” says Des Mar, stepping closer. “Though I wish it were under more agreeable circumstances.” He eyes Rey’s grip on her husband but makes no comment.

 

“Ilys.” Ben replies, turning his attention to the governor.

 

“I’m glad you two showed up when you did. I was about to send a few Members of the Peace to bring you,” continues Ilys Del Mar, “I have a feeling you will be able to make more sense of this than I.”

 

_Here._

_Here._

_Come here._

 

Rey, only half listening, releases Ben and walks past the two men. The tall grass brushing against her legs as she moves.  Roughly ten yards away a canvas tarp covers a jagged form in the tall grass. Now, with everyone gone, she wonders how she didn’t sense it before. Where the Force should move with ease, it gathers bulging and restrained. Rey stops and kneels, gently she lifts the edge of the cloth and gazes down at what it concealed. The ashen, contorted face of a man stares back at her, through her, past her. His body is broken and twisted, bones jutting out at odd angles, and other than the flaking dry blood around his mouth there are no other signs of external damage. No, he had been shattered within his flesh. Such controlled violence that it wrung organs and broke bones but did not tear or puncture the delicate skin.

 

Rey has seen death dealt in many forms; starvation, brutality, accident, and old age. Death doesn’t bother her quite like it once did, though she feels compassion for this nameless man, her concern is not for his physical body.

 

He is trapped. The very essence of him caged within his flesh, tethered by ropes that should be impossible, yet here they are. The Force within him cannot leave his body and join the flow as it should after death.

 

Rey motions for Kylo to come closer, her eyes never leaving the strange tangled form below her. “Ben,” she says quietly when she feels him behind her. “What is happening to him?”

 

Ben approaches her slowly, and Rey can feel his entire body tense up as he sees the mangled form before his eyes. She turns to look at him, but he averts his gaze, looking away from the body. _He can feel them too_ , she thinks, _the ropes_. The Force around this body thrums and whirls chaotically. Rey only catches a look at his face, all contorted in worry and anxiety, but she can see it, a look that she hasn't seen since...since _then_. Behind those eyes, she can hear those whispers resounding with a beat much clearer and louder than in her own mind. Try as he might to block her, he can’t completely push her away.

 

“ _Happening?_ ” Questions Ilys from further back. “What do you mean _happening_? The man is obviously dead.”

 

“Have you read about this?” Rey continues, speaking gently trying to soothe his grating anxiety. Ben stares down at the broken figure, his eyes flick over the dead man, the dozens of invisible strands that bind him, and out over the landing zone. Rey can tell he is thinking, analyzing, arranging his mind, cataloguing every piece of information he’s encountered over the years of extensive study regarding the way the Force yields itself and how it can be manipulated, his jaw working in tandem with his brain, ever the scholar despite the saber hilt she knows is tucked within his robes.

 

“Perhaps.” He confides after a long moment. “I’m certain it wasn’t inflicted by a weapon. Though I have never come across an explanation detailing this,” he adds, focusing his attention entirely on the Force within the internally decaying body. He pushes, and the tethers connecting the two slowly stretch, the links of the chain weaken under the tension that the man's own struggling life force provides, like the strings of a violin plucked too violently. “This is not possible. These _ropes_ should not even exist. It's – it's – I've never seen anything like—”

 

“What ropes?” Demands Ilys. Having moved closer to the gruesome display despite his better judgment, he peers over Rey’s shoulder, old eyes searching. “I see no bindings on the man.”

 

“You wouldn’t. They're not—” Replies Ben, waving his hands around expressively, trying to find a way to explain. Rey stands and reaches out, stroking Ben's cheek, and immediately the simple contact has the desired effect. His gaze connects with her own and stills, shoulders loosen, and he ceases grinding his teeth.

 

“Relax,” she murmurs. Hand sinking through his skin, brushing against his consciousness, the dura-steel walls crumble before her. Briefly, she occupies his physical form, stepping into his mind he guides her through his thoughts. “Oh,” she startles and opens her eyes. “Are you sure?”

 

"It's similar," he says after a long pause, "not exact, yet still possessive" he whispers, "the voice that used to echo in my mind all the time. It feels the same as him."

 

"But it's not the same, " Rey soothes, though there is firmness in her tone "it'll never be the same, you know that."

 

After a long stare, Ben slightly nods his head and Rey releases him, not before rising to brush her lips against his own. Illys certainly looks surprised by the sudden moment between the couple, about voices and ropes and whatnot, but decides not to question it. Choosing instead to loudly clear his throat and examine the cloudless sky with great interest.

 

Ben steps away from Rey feeling oddly chastised. Des Mar reminds him of his father in several ways and he doesn’t want to dwell on that too much. Instead he kneels, reaching out to trace one of the ropes only he and Rey can see. It vibrates under his touch much like a lightsaber, emboldened, he curls his finger around it and pulls. It dissolves immediately, dissipating and returning to the flow around them.

 

Inside him something snaps, a shriek pierces through his head as though the very air around him is moaning in pain. Clutching a hand to his chest, the other buried in the grass beside the dead man to steady his trembling form, he stares into the sunken blank eyes. Horrified, he realizes that the scream is not coming from the man and turns to stare up at Rey.

 

“ _Our sons_.” She gasps, nearly a sob.

 

Blindly grasping, she clutches Ben’s tunic and yanks, dragging him away from the body, they run. Behind them Ilys yells to come back. The governor can’t hear it, can’t feel the desperation and pain within the Force that surrounds them all. The bond between them screaming with unspoken fear, his fear or hers, it doesn’t matter. When Ben plucked the thread, unbound it, something within the Force was freed. It had been calling out to them and they were unable to hear or answer back. They could only run, lungs burning as they sprinted through the outpost and market stalls, back to the speeder sitting on the edge of town.

 

Somehow Rey is faster than her husband, desperation pushing her forward, she slams into the hovering speeder and claws her way into the seat. Fingers dancing across the pad as she enters the activation code. She waits a single heartbeat for Ben to grab hold before punching the engine to full power and launches forward. Kicking up black dust as they dart down the main road and cut across steep green hills, she doesn’t slow down for a second, barely maneuvering the speeder around rocks and over low ridges. The Force weighs heavily on their silence. Despite the roar of the engine and whipping wind in their ears, they both can hear it clearly. Rey slams her fist against the warm metal beneath her. Urging the machine to fly faster. Faster. Faster.

 

A sobbing voice. A child. Their child. Cries out to them through the Force.

 

_Papa._

_Mama!_

Shrieking and lost within his fear, Rosh pleads for them over and over again.

 

_Where are you?_

 

 

 

…………………………………

 

 

He remembers Kiran nudging him forward, urging him towards the speeder. His brother’s face strained and dark with gruesome purpose. The hum of a lightsaber behind him. Protection from the monsters. Crunching rock beneath his foot falls. The speeder a few feet away. Reaching. Searing heat and pain.

 

Darkness.

 

He is the wind swaying with the grass, soaring with the birds. Weightless as he circles over the ocean. He is the dark earth, the insects, the roots. Heavy with sleep, he curls in on himself to slumber with stones. He sees the whole of Lah’mu and every grain of sand on her shores. Drifts between the atoms and mountains, land and oceans. He hides inside whispers and watches from a thousand eyes. Draws fresh blood. Births new life. He is ancient. Newborn. Honed and raw.

 

Darkness.

 

He blinks from the blinding sunlight above him. His mother’s eyes gaze into his own. He cannot speak to her. She cannot hear him. He’s rotting. He’s broken. He is bound.

 

_He remembers._

 

 _Mama_ , _Papa_ he screams. _Where are you?_ _Help me._ Thrashing wildly against his restraints of broken bone and flesh, he cries harder. She stares back with somber eyes. Behind her his father stands speaking, the words dim in Rosh’s ears. The boy reaches out, grasping and filling the space within a body not his own. Brushes against memories of another life; a home filled with many generations, a silent woman with adoration in the curve of her smile, one last trade before the wedding, and desperation— pitiful desperation to live.

 

_Help us._

 

As though he hears, his father reaches out, hand hovering above the restraints binding him within death and rot. He pulls and light rushes in. Rosh screams, wordless and frantic, frightened for himself and for his brother he feels dying. For the man without future, trapped in his own decay and unable to join the Force. Each of them alone and in agony.

 

 

He wakes with blood in his mouth. Head throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. Rosh rolls onto his stomach, eyes glossing over the black gravel embedded in his arms. Aching from the effort, he looks up.

 

Kiran writhes on the ground, feet kicking out, one hand clutching his neck, the other reaching desperately for his saber hilt. The blade trembling, frantic to heed its master’s call, yet trapped by an unseen force. Kiran’s blood rimmed gaze seethes at the dark figure kneeling beside him. Rosh watches Kiran’s lifeforce dimming as the figure lazily holds a hand over his brother, inflicting its will through the Force with cruel delight.

 

Throwing his arm out Rosh shoves with the Force, flinging the monster back to crash some twenty feet away. Kiran, released from its hold, violently sucks down air. Coughing and sputtering, he rolls over on his hands and knees, gasping. Rosh stands on shaky legs, his body protesting every shift of weight, and shuffles forward to stand in front of Kiran. His brother’s saber flies to his small hand, but he doesn’t ignite it. There is no need.

The broken puppets that began this nightmare stumble towards them, reaching and calling with gurgling voices. Rosh can see now, hundreds of strings that bind them and bend them to the will of that monster. He understands now and from that comes compassion for them, from compassion rises strength. Rosh no longer fears, instead he turns his anger on the puppet master.

 

He opens himself to the Force, draws a deep breath and screams. A wave of hatred, amplified a thousand times over through the Force sends shock waves across the clearing. The ties that bind and control the people snap and vanish, their freed bodies jolt and crumple to the ground. Some moan in agony from their wounds, others lay motionless, long dead, their bodies merely tools. All cease their mindless assault on the boys. Rosh turns his attention on the monster, narrows his eyes, teeth bared while assaulting its mental defenses. The pressure from his blows shove the creature back on its knees, clutching its hooded head while thrashing in the tall grass.

 

“Rosh,” Kiran coughs behind him, slowly he pushes himself of the ground. “It’s okay. Calm down.” His brother has opened himself fully to the Force, released his emotions and grasped its darker aspect for power. He must calm his brother before Rosh goes too far.

 

“ _No_ ,” Rosh hisses, small hands clenched by his sides. Rivulets of blood flow down his freckled arms, Kiran follows their trails, noting dozens of pebbles imbedded across Rosh’s arms and face. Deeper within he senses his brother’s pain even if the boy has yet to feel it himself. “That creature is still alive. I can feel him. I can sense his hatred. He has to die, Kiran, I have to—”

 

Kiran smacks Rosh across the back of his matted head. Yelping, Rosh turns on his brother, aghast at the sudden betrayal. Kiran leans in and slips his saber from the small, bloody hand. A weapon, even an elegant one, doesn’t belong there. Not like this.

 

“You saved me, kid,” he says, gazing down at his brother. “I was in a world of hurt. I owe you one.” Kiran breathes deeply, savoring the feeling of air in his lungs. He turns to face the dark figure. It stands among the broken bodies, no longer in pain, studying them intently with its head cocked to the side. Not breaking eye contact with the figure, Kiran continues whispering to his brother. “We’re not out of this, not yet. You’re the hero, so you need to save us. Run to Erv’s homestead, think you can do that?”

 

“Kiran,” Rosh begins to protest, but Kiran holds up a hand to stop him. Precious seconds rushing by.

 

“Run, Rosh. Go to Erv’s and use their comm to call into town. I’ll be right behind you,” Kiran’s battered face bursts into a grin. “Besides, I’m faster than you. Think of it as a head start.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Kiran shoves Rosh behind him in the direction of Erv’s. Rosh stumbles and turns to argue but Kiran’s back is to him. His brother’s focus is on the monster again while Rosh, in a fit of childish bravery, gives the figure one last glare, sticking his tongue out before breaking into a sprint. Leaping over the crops, he clears the fields quickly and bounds across the training grounds and behind the apprentice houses. The figure shifts as though to follow, its hooded face tracing Rosh’s path. Kiran mimics the movement to block its view, thumbing his lightsaber the blade erupts to life.

 

“We’re not done here,” Kiran says. The figure pauses, hood tilting to better assess him.

 

………………………………………

 

He can feel the sting in his arms now as he scrambles up the steep embankment behind their home. Bloody fingers sinking into small holes and rough patches to give him purchase, he manages to scale the wall quickly. He doesn’t look back, from this height he would have a clear view of the fields below, of his brother facing down the monster. He doesn’t look back. Pulling the Force closer to himself, he soothes his pain and runs.

 

Half a mile out, he is bruised and panting. The tall grass hides any dips or stones, and Rosh’s urgency had made him careless. In the distance he can see the pale spot that is Erv’s family home, but it is far, so far away. Kiran is alive, he knows for sure, strained as he is to sense his brother through the Force, but every second is a lifetime and if he doesn’t hurry death will take his brother. He pushes on, clutching his side to ease the pain of panting.

 

In his peripheral, something gleams in the light of the setting sun. Nothing gleams on Lah’mu, nothing but the metal filled streams and he isn’t near one. He squints, gazing out at the horizon. A lone speeder shoots towards him kicking up black dirt in its wake. It is on him in seconds, and even if he could escape, there is nowhere to hide in the open field, besides he is grinning and nearly crying in relief when its driver pulls up beside him.

 

“Roshan,” Zoya breathes, sliding off the speeder before crushing him in a hug. “I was so certain you were lost to us, little one.” She pulls back, holding him at arm’s length. “Where are the Masters?”

 

Zoya,” Rosh murmurs. He is a good child. Well behaved, well learned, and in many ways wise beyond his tender years. He obeys his father, listens to his mother, and follows his brother; however, he will defy them all if the Force whispers to him. Gently prods him towards a contradictory path. In this moment, gazing back at his sister, his clanmate and precious student of his parents, the Force does not whisper.

It screams with the voices of many whom Rosh cannot save. Yet he feels their anguish and death all the same. His brother’s signature in the Force burns inside him as though it were his own, but a second is a lifetime in battle and his brother is not strong enough alone.

 

“I need your help.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiran is a variant of Rey's original name, Kira in the concept artwork. Also a play on the Irish name Kieran.
> 
> Rosh, as you learned in this chapter, is short for Roshan. Chosen for its meaning and a nod to the name Padme, well, to the various cultures its roots are found. Also chosen for it's use of "Han" in the name. 
> 
> A quick search will give you the meanings behind their names as well. Balance in all things. Hopefully it shows in their relationship. :)


	5. By the Blaze of a Funeral Pyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is late, and for that you have my apologies. I thought I was done in mid-May, but the chapter just didn't sit right with me, so I deleted the whole thing and began again from scratch. I hope it turned out well.
> 
> A big round of applause for my dear friend, MelodyoftheRiver for once again beta reading this chapter for me and sending such kind feedback. Go check her out! She's on Tumblr as well.
> 
> Until next time, readers

 

 

 

Clouds of dark smoke poured from the house, now nothing more than a blazing inferno reaching skywards. The demolished speeder’s flame having made quick work of the structure. As if to add insult to injury, a low wind rose to drag it from the belly of his home and across the fields, obscuring the light and green within the swirl of murky haze. To show him everything he once called his own. The smoke and ash of his childhood burned his eyes and raw throat, but Kiran ignored it. Still breathing, and _kriffing pissed_ , he watched at the hooded figure feint left for the fifth time.

 

It darted sideways ten steps before Kiran blocked and thrust forward with his lightsaber. Avoiding him, once more, it skipped backwards, vanishing into the waves of dark smoke. Kiran realized long ago that despite his opponent’s skill in Force manipulation, it didn’t appear particularly adept at combat. Preferring to play this frustrating game of Loth-cat and mouse, to prod at Kiran’s form and speed in search of an opening. However, its aim remained the same, always in the direction that Rosh had run and never a full retreat. Kiran needed time, the more the better, so he’d stay on the defensive and wait for the hooded figure’s next move. Even better, he’d prod right back.

 

“I have to say I’m disappointed,” Kiran shouts, fighting down the urge to cough. “I’ve fought younglings tougher than you.”

 

There is no response, but Kiran sees the dark figure shift in the smoke, quiet laughter wafting towards him. Good, it understands Basic. Up until this point Kiran hadn’t been entirely sure if it could speak, much less laugh, now he knows it is human or humanoid at least. If he can’t get a hit on it with his blade, then he’ll keep throwing out blows with words. Then they can both be agitated.

 

“Earlier? That was luck,” he continues bluffing. “I won’t allow it to happen again. Impressive, but your trick won’t work.”

 

The figure makes another dash, this time towards one of the few survivors of its earlier Force manipulation, but Kiran is quicker. His humming saber nearly nicking the outstretched hand that darts forth from the cloak’s folds, vainly straining towards the crippled man. The saber slices through the hazy smoke and forces his opponent back, this time however, Kiran doesn’t give way but follows. Footsteps rapidly pattering through the fields and grass. Too close, far too close, had he miss-stepped or arrived a second later then it would have tethered a new puppet. Fodder for the battle, a living shield and weapon.

 

Kiran didn’t give his opponent a chance to escape. With speed and a barrage of quick, short strikes, he drove the cloaked figure back. Away from any forms that lay around them, especially those whose Force signature still flickered. Frustrated by Kiran’s relentlessness, the figure raised a gloved hand and threw everything into a singular Force push. Kiran, mid leap, was hurtled backwards, barely managing to keep his feat under him, and in his panic to stay standing had lost sight of his adversary.

 

Time was up.

 

In his peripheral he sees the cloak shift, a darker outline within the haze, and he strikes true. The saber makes contact, nearly screaming it imbeds itself halfway through the figure’s side. Reaching, Kiran rips the cloak away with the Force.

 

_The face of a murderer._

 

_A monster._

 

Erv’s son stares back at him. Eyes unfocused, gasping at the saber sears through his remaining ribs, suddenly the light of recognition illuminates his face. Agony smoothing into familiarity.

 

“Kir—” he gasps before the light extinguishes, he crumples. Panicking, Kiran disengages the saber, dropping it to catch the boy’s body. Trying not to think about how close he is to Rosh’s height as he lays him down. Erv’s son—no, his name is Liam—who Kiran cursed the other day and swore he’d toss in a Nerf pen— the boy’s blood was on Kiran’s hands. The laughter began again.

 

“You were saying?” It taunted. “I fear your earlier assessment is incorrect. A common fault found among your kind.”

 

Kiran’s fingers hovered over each of the boy’s eyes, his chin, and each shoulder before gently folding the small hands together in the Lah’mu funeral rite. Liam is gone, he knows, freed from his form, he has joined the flow of the Force and the planet. Kiran will mourn him later, face down the knowledge of how Liam died, but he must survive this first. He rises with his lightsaber in hand, the white blade streaks forth once again, and turns to face his opponent.

 

From the smoke the figure emerges, simply garbed in black garments against the gray, a shock of pale hair his only prominent feature besides a manic grin. The shriek of sabers igniting bleeds the smoke around them, scarlet and blood clashing against the white light of his own blade.  With the same lazy movement, so like the ones he used earlier to strangle Kiran, the pale man spins the strange circular hilt. Twin blades hissing through the ash and smoke as he shifts into form.

 

Red light reflects in Kiran’s eyes, blotting out the green, for a flickering moment fear crushes his heart, primal, unnamed, and ancient. Dark whispers creep within his mind.

                          

_Bleed_

_Bleed_

_Bleed the kyber heart_

 

Scarlet and silver meet, screaming with the weight behind the blows. Kiran pushes and ducks to avoid the other blade before striking forward. The man parries the blow and gives way, bending backwards to avoid the arc of Kiran’s saber.  Nothing more than blurs of light and movement within the smoke, their presence within the Force crashing and receding like tidal waves against the shore. Indeed, the Force surges around them of its own accord. Faces stare from the smoke, dozens—hundreds perhaps—he cannot count them all nor name each species. Silent watchers save for the moment the red blades touch them, they morph and within his head Kiran hears their death keens across time and space.

                                                                                                         _Hunt them_

_Hunt them_

_Purge them all_

 

Within his mind he watches a grand temple burn, an island unto itself surrounded by an endless city full of life, yet so few heed the dying or children within. Another temple, smaller and set beneath a dome of stars in a lush jungle, burns as well. The only lifeform to witness kneels, surrounded by bodies and destruction, looking onward with pale green eyes. His lost gaze meets Kiran’s briefly before he too is snatched away to memory. Kiran witnesses planets burn and crumble, monsters lurking concealed within black helms, two warriors fighting back to back in red hell, all illuminated within the scarlet saber’s hating light.

 

The Force curls and uncurls within him, the friction burning his insides. It pulls at him viciously, imploring him to act on the basest of his desires, his anger and hatred and his raw, unadulterated fury. It wants him to become the monster that he really _feels_ like becoming at this point, to carve _that thing’s_ flesh into thin slices and watch his blood water the barren land. He wants him to feel death, without dying, pure pain for daring to hurt his community, his family, _his little brother_.

 

A nagging voice in the back of his mind cautions him to find his center; find the calm within him. Kiran responds with a frustrated howl. Charing, he blows through a series of strikes, each as lethal as the last. The pale man is all reaction where as Kiran screams with each blow, curses him to goad his opponent, but he refuses the obvious bait. There is strength in wielding anger, power with boundaries yet untested, however Kiran was not raised using such a tool. Was not taught to fight with rage and bloodlust, and thus the young man falters in his movements. Missteps and finds himself exposed to the realities of a battle in which one mistake means certain death.

 

Thrusting his saber forward, the pale man pierces Kiran’s upper thigh, searing through fabric, skin, and muscle. Wailing, Kiran stumbles, using every ounce of focus to Force push himself away from an immediate attack. He crashes into the hard ground, crying out again from the pain of jostling his ravaged limb. He can no longer see the pale man obscured by smoke, but he can hear his laughter rising. Tinged with delight at first blood.

 

“Come little Jedi,” he roars within the dark, over crackling sabers. “Come and fight me!”

 

The Force curls in his stomach, hisses and writhes, with jagged claws it climbs its way up his throat. There is no doubt, no hesitation, Kiran knows that this man—this monster—will be the next to die on his saber.

 

The raging, vile power within him rips through his bared teeth, screaming for blood and gore. Curses the light and strains for darkness. It will destroy life, ravage planets, drink the sun if it means it can slaughter this man.

 

“I know what you are,” Kiran screams back, struggling to stand, the tender flesh of his upper thigh tearing more with the effort. “What you want. I swear I’ll kill you before you get it.”

 

_Monster._

_Murderous snake._

_You’ll pay for what you have done!_

 

The hatred engulfs him, turning the kyber crystal at the heart of his saber, and at the heart of him, darker and darker and darker still.

 

“You don’t have the guts, boy.” He mocks him, stepping from the smoke, eyes wild, leveling the angry saber to Kiran’s pounding chest. “I’ll cut that soft Jedi heart out of you and give it to your mother.”

 

“You’re mistaken,” Kiran replies, inside him the Force screeches to be unchained.

 

“I am no Jedi.”

 

Throwing his hand out, Kiran grasps the Force, a final desperate act to defend himself—

 

Suddenly, the pale man leaps backwards barely avoiding the blow of Zoya’s strike. He screams, spittle falling from his lips. Crouching, she charges, mercilessly striking low to keep him off balance. They vanish in the haze, Kiran can do nothing but watch the flashes of red and silver light illuminating the smoke like lightning. A shriek of rage and pain signals the end, and before Kiran can call out, Zoya is standing before him wild eyed and panting.

 

“Come,” she orders, behind her the pale man still shrieks in the haze. “We must hurry.”

 

Kiran steps and stumbles, hissing and clutching at the thigh wound. Zoya’s eyes meet the blackened pit briefly, darkening, she thumbs her saber back on and turns to stride into the smoke. Kiran doesn’t have to prod her mind to know her intent.

 

“Leave him,” he moans, but Zoya ignores him. “We have to find Rosh. _Please, sister_.”

 

Something in Kiran’s tone stops her. Zoya turns back and the sight of Kiran nearly breaks her. His wounds will heal; however, his eyes betray the true wounds. Glassy and distant and deeply set within dark circles, they plead silently. A child who has never once in his life known loneliness, wordlessly begging her not to leave him there alone. Zoya softens, looping an arm under his to better help him bear his weight, she guides him away from death, from destruction, from haunting loneliness.

 

“He is waiting for us. Come.”

 

Together they make their way back towards the still burning house, pausing only to direct Zoya to open the garage to release Korb. Upon seeing the home burning and bodies littering the fields, the droid shrills before shutting down. Possibly for the best, Kiran was certain that the smoke could be seen for miles around and people were coming to investigate, someone would take the droid in for the time being.

 

Making it up the road was difficult. Each step utter agony, his throat raw from inhaling smoke, Kiran found it difficult to breathe as they climbed higher up the ridge. He wanted to ask Zoya why she was here, how she had managed to find him, was Rosh okay, a hundred questions and more, but his body was failing him. Mind blanking out from pain and exhaustion. It was all he could do to shuffle one foot in front of the other.

 

Kiran realizes he must have died when his body becomes weightless; Zoya’s grip releases him. He must be drifting within the Force now. The thought vanishes when his head collides with metal, a small voice shouts an apology before he is lifted and placed on a hard, vibrating surface. An engine humming beneath him, metal warm from use, no, he isn’t dead quite yet.

 

“Hang on to him, Roshan.” Commands Zoya.

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

Kiran feels the pull of small arms encircling his shoulders. Rosh is with him, alive, the realization allows Kiran’s ragged mind to slip into unconsciousness. Fading, he feels his brother’s Force signature flare and soothe him.

 

_Sleep._

_I’ve got you._

 

_I know, kid._

_Thanks._

 

In the speeder’s mirror, Zoya catches Rosh smiling down at Kiran. Tapping her key into the comm unit, she hails the fleet orbiting the planet and shoots coordinates for evacuation. She hadn’t reported in for over twelve standard hours, so the sudden surfacing of coordinates would raise alarms and send backup and a medic. Her vision blurs, the horizon out of focus momentarily. She rubs her eyes, blinks, and everything is back to normal. Tired, she thinks, I’m just tired. Revving the engine, the three speed away while below them, beyond the burning wreckage the screams have long stopped. Only singular, quiet laughter mingles with the cracking flame.

 

………………………………………………………

 

 

 

“Rey.”

 

 Rey realizes somewhere deep inside herself that she is looking at a sort of funeral pyre. No form burns within the flame; however, death lingers in the air. A sense of loss, of a void having been torn open which Rey feels unable to fill. Absent mindedly, she fingers the polished black stones adorning her neck. Threaded and beaded onto the thin leather strap with childlike delight, and carefully secured with finely welded bits of metal to decorate and cap the stone beads.

 

The necklace, a gift for her thirty-fifth year, is one of her most precious possessions. Rosh had scoured the black sand beaches for small, smooth pebbles rounded from the crashing waves. While Kiran, with as much patience a fourteen-year-old boy could expend, had polished and hollowed each pebble. Together he and Rosh strung the stone beads before Kiran, under the watchful eye of his brother, twisted and molded the metal to create the findings.

 

Other than the clothes she wears, and her lightsaber at her hip, the necklace is her only worldly possession she has left. Everything else is ash. Fingers falling from the stones as though burned by the flame, she turns to heed Ben’s call.

 

Rey finds him standing just outside of the garage. At his feet lays another body, the eighth one they’ve found thus far. Ben’s face gives away none of the chaos simmering through their bond.

 

“A young woman,” he murmurs. Shifting, he motions down the hill. “The rest of her is there.”

 

Rey feels heavy. Death is not a stranger to them, however, it never stood on their doorstep screaming to be let in. The body is headless, the point of severance clearly inflicted by a lightsaber, and for the moment Rey ignores that fact. She’s even less prepared to confront the face staring up at them from the ground.

 

“I know her,” she whispers. Ben’s eyes shoot to her face, the fine muscle beneath twitches. “She was with us on the shuttle. Givari of Hapes.”

 

“Did you sense anything from her?”

 

“No,” Rey begins, closing her eyes to focus. “No, there was nothing. We spoke briefly, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

 

“This is the point of origin,” he replies, waving his hand about the entrance to the garage. Remarkably clinical in his analysis. “Where this began. Look here—” he kneels, fingers brushing a long scorch mark in the soil— “a lightsaber mark. Clean and neat, yet aggressive. If I had to guess, I’d say it was inflicted secondly to sever her head. The first strike was through her chest.”

 

Rey kneels to examine Givari’s remains and Ben is correct, she had been run through by the blade. Yet there was no scorch mark behind her to indicate it having been done while she was on the ground. Rey’s stomach churns. _Aggressive_. The wounds were made with haste, without control and marred with terror. Rey wraps her arms around her waist and shakily exhales. Reaches deep for her reserve of serenity and allows it to pervade everything; numb her volatile fear until their questions are answered and their sons found.

 

It shatters with a shriek.

 

Without a word they chase after the sound—closer this time and panicked—the glimmer of hope bouncing back and forth between them.

 

A young woman emerged from the smoke, scrambling through the grass, with wild desperation twisting her features. Blood stained fingers scrape and drag her through the dirt, and when she sees them rushing towards her, a primal cry escapes the depths of her body and she reaches for them.

 

“Please, _please_ ” she sobs. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Don’t let him take me again.”

 

Her face darkens, shadowed from the light of day by the massive form of a man behind her. In one arm he drags another man, smaller and pale, behind him. The young woman shrieks at the sight of him, but he is upon her before she can escape. His free hand crushing her throat as she struggles and kicks beneath his heavy form.

 

Instinct overtakes Ben, raw and barely tethered, within a heartbeat he seizes the energy around him and _pushes_. In the same instant, Rey swerves, dives, and rolls out of the way before popping back up into a sprint. The massive man flies back from the strength of Ben’s push, just as Rey clasped hands with the young woman and holds her in place. Rooting herself to the soil beneath them, using her own body as a shield. The woman whimpers in her arms as the air around them whipped and slashed. It was over nearly the instant it begins.

 

Ben jogs to them while Rey looks the woman over; her eyes are bloodshot and her throat beginning to bruise.

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Rey sooths, gently pouring healing Force over the mark. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”

 

The woman turns her head in the direction Ben sent her attacker flying. A few feet away lays the man he had been dragging behind him. When her eyes focus on him she struggles to shove Rey away.

 

“It’s okay,” Rey repeats, motioning towards the motionless form of the large man. “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

 

The woman breaks Rey’s grasp and clambers further away. “No, not him— _him_ ” she shouts, pointing her finger at the pale man laying face down a few feet away. “ _Don’t let him touch you!_ ”

 

Movement, in the corner of her eye, a flash of pale skin and the sound of a saber igniting.

 

Rey’s arm lashes out, her saber snapping from her belt into her hand, to defend herself. Ben is quicker, his amethyst lightsaber shrieking into existence before dropping in between them, flicking the blade, he sent the man’s hand and saber flying. Shrieking and clutching at the charred nub with his remaining hand, the pale man rocks back and forth on his back below Ben.

 

Ben lowers the tip of the lightsaber so that it violently hums just above the man’s head. “Speak,” he orders darkly over the screams. “Or I burn out your left eye first.”

 

Instantly the pale man ceases his wailing. A low cackle rising from his chest as he twists his neck to look up at Ben.

 

“How about you _just look_ , Solo?” He retorts. His watery eyes flicking back and forth between his and Rey’s faces with feral glee. “Remember anything about me, yet?”

 

“ _You_ ,” Rey hisses, realization burning in her chest. “You were the one in Lah’Kah—you insinuated I was the murder. You’re a mechanic in town so _what the kriff are you doing here_?”

 

 “You stupid, bitch.” He cackles, seemingly oblivious to how above him Ben’s body stiffens and his fist clenches. “So arrogant, so blind that you didn’t even realize. _Didn’t see_. Grown placid and content to live out this measly life, but I know you.”

 

Rey’s gaze burns into his own, he refuses to look away. Grows bolder and more deranged with each word. “Oh, yes, I know your soul. You play at benevolence and harmony, but _you’re festering inside_. How long, hm? How long will you last, _Jedi?_ ”

 

“Enough!” Ben barks. His growing anger evident in every facet of his face. “Tell us your name and who sent you. Now.”

 

Without pause, the pale man raises his gaze to Ben’s, the amethyst light of the saber gleams in his tempestuous eyes. Something akin to longing veils his features. A beast recognizing another of its kind and wanting nothing more than to know if they are one in the same. Or desiring nothing more than to know which will walk away in tact.

 

“And you _, oh_ ,” he breathes. “I admit you’ve done well to wash the blood from your hands. Ah! Missed a spot—” he points to himself, giddy at his cleverness— “so many flecks of blood splattered across your flesh—”

 

Ben’s nostrils flare, the tender flesh beneath his eye twitches. Without another word he reaches, fingers flexed, and for the first time in nearly a decade he takes what he wants. The pale man offers little resistance, merely shuddering as Ben searches. Pries deep within his consciousness. He is not unkind, but he isn’t gentle either.

 

 “Augh! Hux knew better, realized he couldn’t chain you, so he created us—”he continues. Ben pushes harder and beads of sweat begin to dot his brow. Ben flinches away from him as though stung but does not relinquish his search. Instead he dives further, carves through the man’s mind with barely controlled rage. Rey reaches for him, he keeps her at bay. Whatever he saw, whatever he is seeing now he is doing everything to keep her from it. Rey can’t feel him, their bond muffled within his anger. His shields up to keep the inferno from consuming her as well.

 

“Ben?” She whispers.

 

“Where are the boys you sought?”

 

“—in the final days of Emperor Ren, Hux sought out Force sensitives to train,” the man pants.  He despised us, a mockery to his science and power, but he needed us to ensure you fucking Jedi would not rise again. A new Inquisition of the First Ord—”

_“Where are my sons?”_

 

The pale man pauses. His face can only be described as reverent as he stares up at Ben’s crackling rage. Victorious. A true grin illuminates his features as he replies:

“Dead.” He flicks his wrist and a pale blue thread, unseen within the Force and as fine as Naboo gossamer, snaps. “Your _student_ will see to that.”

 

Ben stared back at him as though he were a man staring down his own execution. His features motionless, but his eyes, oh his eyes, were dying stars. Burning, blazing their last breath unto the universe before the chaos and destruction stilled and died. Rey feels him then. Their bond ripples between them, a wash of pressure in her head before his shields crumble and she can’t tell which of them is screaming as Ben grasps his saber with both hands. Raising it high into the air before throwing all his weight behind the blow. He falls on the pale man at his feet with an ageless god’s fury, a demon dragged from the depths of a burning sun, a monster intent on devouring the light of the stars whole. It tears him open, raw and aching for all the galaxy to see and bear judgement.

 

The amethyst lightsaber fizzles and cracks, half embedded within the soil and crackling flesh, before sputtering out. Ben exhales a single, shaky breath. Grasping the circular hilt the pale man had been holding, he rises. Giving neither final word or gaze to the disfigured, smoking remains.

 

“We need to leave,” he says simply.

 

“You killed him,” Rey replies, her voice distant and sad. In her arms the woman, mouth gaping, stares.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tell me why. What did you see?”

 

Ben shakes his head and turns back to her. “I will tell you everything I know and saw, I swear it. Now though, Rey, now we need to find our sons and leave this planet.”

 

“Our home, Ben.” Her small hand reaches seeking his own. Unafraid. Suddenly the monster in his head silences with her hand pressed in his. He regards her for a moment, allowing her despair to soothe his anger before he hoists her up. Gently he pats ash and dirt from her clothes, brushes errant strands of hair from her face, and kneels to put the shivering woman to sleep. She flinches at his touch, but quickly passes out with gentle assistance from the Force.

 

“Where will we go?” Rey whispers to herself. Ben presses her palm to his lips momentarily and begins walking, gently pulling her along beside him. Past the funeral pyre which was once their home. Past ashen memories and smoldering peace, with ghosts of the past following in their wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. The Little Prince and the Silent Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My DEEPEST apologies for how long it has taken me to write this chapter. Some plot changes were in order and a transition was needed, but hopefully it is an engaging chapter. 
> 
> If you're still reading then I tip my imaginary hat and give you a hearty "thank you, dear reader!"
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

Rosh stands in line patiently with tray in hand, eyes planted on the uniformed back in front of him. Eyes still heavy with sleep, he stifles a rising yawn and roughly pats his cheek to wake himself. The line shifts forward and he along with it. In moments he is standing at the service window, his tray held out and waiting.

 

“Well,” exclaims the serving attendant, “if it isn’t my little darling come to see me at such a late hour.”

 

Rosh mumbles a sleepy reply but manages to give the gray-haired woman a lopsided smile. She tuts affectionately a bit more and hands back his tray, now full of various colorful globs. Quietly, he thanks her and turns to go.

 

“ _Ah! Ah! Ah!”_ She chides, reaching she places half a Jogan fruit on the tray as well. Winking, she adds, “Those arrived just today. Something sweet for a sweet boy.”

 

Rosh silently stares at the offering before murmuring “Thank you.”

 

Rosh finds a vacant seat on the other side of the large dining hall. The space is mostly empty at this late hour and those who do occupy nearby seats don’t have the energy to spare him a glance. Their shifts over, exhausted and soon fed, they will make their way back to their rooms and sleep before reporting back to duty. Rosh sits, legs swinging under him, and quickly devours the bland mush on his tray. By now he eats to keep his stomach from hurting rather than to enjoy the food. However, he savors the slice of fruit. Taking care to ensure not a single sweet drop of juice escapes and relishes the tart crunch of the seeds. Glancing up to make sure no one is watching, he licks each finger and wipes them on the rough military issued pants.

 

……………………………………………………………

 

 

_It had been simple to watch her die._

 

_Rosh felt Zoya change in the Force before even she realized the threads tightening. Her own signature, warm and softly tinged with yellow, flickered, shrank and raged through her like flames. Alien within her own skin, her trembling hand moved without her consent. Fingers curling around the hilt of her lightsaber._

 

_Rosh acted without thinking, wielding the Force to yank the speeder’s handle. Sending them all flying the instant the speeder’s nose struck the ground, shredding the metal against stone and soil. Clinging to Kiran’s unconscious form, Rosh’s shoulder took the brunt of their collision, skidding across the ground before stopping. The flesh of his back screamed as he weakly rolled Kiran off his chest before managing to sit up. His pale woven tunic slipped from his chest and arms as oozing, damp warmth, spread across his back. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he crawled on all fours to retrieve his brother’s saber, his lifeline, while chunks of warped metal, sparking and crackling with flames burned around them._

 

_“Zoya, no.” Rosh raggedly breathed. His clan sister rose before his eyes on unsteady legs. She turned on them, blood pooling from the top of her shaved brow, her lightsaber ignited._

 

……………………………………………………………

 

 

The smooth durasteel halls are mostly empty save for the half a dozen guards on duty. Each regard the small boy with messy hair pass by, but none call out to him or ask who he is or why he is roaming around at such an hour.

 

Because every lifeform aboard knows _exactly_ who the child is.

They whisper to one another when they think he can’t hear. Tossing around words like “queen”, “politician”, “Jedi”, and “bloodline”. All while looking at Rosh with awe, confusion, or worst of all, fear.

 

_“ He’s a Jedi.”_

_“The Jedi died with Luke Skywalker, you space cadet.”_

 

_“ You know who his parents are, right?”_

_“Aren’t they dangerous?”_

_“Where are they?”_

_“He’s the late General Organa’s grandchild. Don’t mess with him.”_

 

Rosh thought they were all nerf-herders.

 

He is a child of Lah’mu; of green hills and dark rock, mist and rain. The youngest son of parents who are as gentle as they are frighteningly powerful, parents who love him without condition. Grandchild of a princess turned general and a smuggler turned war hero. Great-nephew of the last true Jedi of the Old Order. Heir to the throne of a dead planet. Great-grandchild of Naberrie and Skywalker. Great-great grandchild of a slave woman buried on a desert planet. He knows who he is, however, to Rosh, such things sound more like fantastic legends than his own family.

 

He is Roshan Organa-Solo of Lah’mu. He’s no one, really.

 

Oh, how he desperately wishes he was no one.

 

……………………………………………………………

 

 

_“Stop, please Zoya. Just stop.” He begged after having thrown her back again. He wailed when she managed to push herself up again and couldn’t bring himself to look at her in this state. Each time he used the Force to throw her back, away from them, she rose up more broken and bleeding. Unfeeling to his shrieking pleas and cries, as she once again ignited her lightsaber._

 

_“R-Rosh…an,” she called, each shaking step bringing her closer._

 

_Once more._

_Once more._

 

_He raised a trembling hand as his world crumbled around him,  he collapsed onto the ground, soil damp with his own blood. Rosh felt the Force flowing within him as strong as his own pulse, but his physical body was exhausted and broken, too much lifeblood had seeped from him into the sands of Lah’mu._

 

_Kiran lay beside him and Rosh reached for him weakly, his fingertips brushing Kiran’s when Zoya’s boot landed hard on his stomach. Rosh screamed, curling in on himself his body shying away from the source of pain that had him pinned. His tattered back burned beneath him, the black rocks digging deep into the open flesh._

 

_Above them, the sky of Lah’mu split open and rain poured down, slowly at first and then haphazardly all at once, as Zoya raised her hissing saber, turning the hilt to spear him through._

 

_“Zoya!” He cried as thunder rumbled, metallic rain stinging his eyes. “Sister, please!”_

 

_For one heartbeat, with clear eyes and gritted teeth, Zoya stared down at Rosh, a split second of realization flashed across eyes. Screaming, she plunged the lightsaber through her center, the blade as steady and sure as its master’s will._

 

_“Brother,” she whispered, crumpling to the ground._

……………………………………………………………

 

 

Durasteel walls give way to a large opening leading to the training room. Rosh peers inside, curious to see if anyone is up sparring so late. The room is empty, the sensor lights flicker on and illuminate the vast room when Rosh steps inside.

 

Without real interest he examines the far wall lined with sparring weapons and equipment. All are highly crafted, if well used, and a far cry from the mis-matched ones they scrapped together back home. Even without people, the room hums with purpose and energy, so like their practice field and yet so foreign and cold.

 

Without realizing he brushes his hand along the outside of his oversized military clothing, feeling for the hard metal hidden within. Two saber hilts tied to his side. He never lets them out of his sight though neither belong to him.

 

Only the ship’s General knows what Rosh hides, having asked him to show him Kiran’s ignited blade. Promising not to confiscate them if Rosh swore he would not show them to anyone else aboard. Rosh swore and the man smiled kindly at him with knowing eyes.

 

The hum and glow of the blade in the hands of the small, dark haired boy made the General’s smile widen.

 

“That’s a sight I haven’t seen in many years,” he said. “Fought with one once, but it wasn’t meant for me. Nearly died trying to handle the damned thing.”

 

……………………………………………………………

 

 

_Zoya’s hands lingered on Rosh’s tear stained cheeks until moments before her life left her. The frightened boy hovered over her, his dark hair dripping with rainwater and blood._

 

_“Zoya, I’m sorry,” he wailed, but all of it in vain. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeated, clutching the woman’s blood-stained hand to his cheek._

 

_“Hush now,” she struggled to say. “Weep no tears for me. With li—life comes death and I—”_

 

_Her chest seized as she inhaled one ragged breath, shaking, her hands pulling Rosh’s forehead to meet her own. A shuttle broke through the storm clouds, beams of light illuminating the burning wreckage and three figures below._

 

_Zoya pressed her saber hilt into Rosh’s hands._

 

_“I am glad I was able to see you once more, little one. Brother of my heart.”_

 

 

……………………………………………………………

 

 

The lead medic is already in the infirmary when Rosh arrives. Sitting behind his desk, shuffling through various holos and sipping caff, he glances up.

 

“You should be sleeping,” he quips, taking a slow sip from the metal cup as though it is life itself.

 

“Its been over twenty-four standard hours. You told me I could come back.”

 

The medic sighs, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

 

He regards Rosh a moment longer, using the time to finish off his drink before setting the cup aside and standing. “Follow me. There are no other patients currently here and my relief won’t arrive for another quarter.”

 

Rosh didn’t respond, merely followed the medic past rows of beds and metal shelves of equipment. A droid paused to watch them pass, the medic waving his hand to keep it from intercepting to offer assistance.

 

A second automated door _whooshes_ open to let the two pass through into a back room. No beds lined the walls, instead the space is occupied by two rows of bacta tanks, all dark and unused except for the closest one on their left. Kiran floating motionless within the bacta and hooked to an oxygen mask. The rhythmic beeping of the tank’s life support systems the only sound in the room.

 

Rosh, with ease from having done so half a dozen times already, rests his hand on the tank’s glass window and looks in.

 

“We will release him in the morning.” The medic offers. “All systems show he will make a full recovery, though he may have some residual stiffness in his injured leg. Some trouble walking for a few days, but as I said, a full recovery—" He pauses, brow furrowing— “I have never treated a lightsaber wound. However, records indicate that despite the loss of flesh from the blade it should respond to bacta if treated quickly.”

 

Rosh looks up at him, face illuminated from the tank’s faint green light. “Thank you.”

 

“You really should sleep, though. I encourage you to return to your quarters—”

 

Rosh cuts him off. “I want to be here when he wakes up. _You’ll let me sleep here._ ”

 

The medic opens his mouth to protest, he has his orders directly from the General himself. However, the boy’s gaze halts anything he had planned to say, the air tightening around him, he shakes his head and considers that perhaps another cup of caff is in order. He feels a headache coming on.

 

“You can sleep here he repeats,” pinching the bridge of his nose. Where had this blasted pressure come from? “I’ll have the droid bring you a pallet.”

 

……………………………………………………………

 

_“Dad told me something today,” Kiran whispered one night as the world slept. “How he didn’t have a choice as to what he wanted to be. His choices were made for him until he was a man grown.”_

 

_“Even now?” Rosh whispered back uneasily, pulling the covers tighter to his chin._

 

_Kiran snorted. “No, you nerf-herder, dad makes his own choices now. Well, mom might make some of them for him, but he still has a choice. Point is, I told him that I didn’t want to go with that man who came today. I didn’t care how strong he thinks I am, I’m not fighting in some war.”_

 

_Rosh sat up, his unease curling into fear. “No!” He hissed. “You can’t go—I—I don’t want you to fight anyone. You’d have to kill if you fought. You…you could be killed.”_

 

_Kiran reached over and ruffled Rosh’s hair, completely unfazed by his plea, before pulling him closer. “No worries, kid. Dad told me I wasn’t going anywhere unless I wanted to—” a yawn stretched from his mouth and he nuzzled deeper into his pillow. “The old man also told me I had to reach my eighteenth year before I could make any ‘life altering decisions’ or whatever. I’m here for another four years at least. Now go to sleep. We have chores to do in the morning.”_

……………………………………………………………

 

 

Rosh curls up on top of the pallet, drawing the scratchy blankets tightly around himself. The ship’s synthetic lighting above clicks off once the droid leaves. The room remains dimly lit from the interior glow of the bacta-tank. Rosh curls further into himself, sniffing. The ships filtered air still burns his nose and chills him in the cold vacuum of space.

 

“Goodnight, Kiran,” his voice is small in the quiet room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

Mechanical beeps from the life support systems are all that respond.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The Son of My Enemy Is My Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thousand pardons for my absence. Work whipped back up and demanded far more of me than I anticipated.
> 
> If any of you still care to read this one, much thanks. Hope you enjoy the snark. :)
> 
> Thanks to Melody of the River for lovingly poking my lifeless husk to keep writing. How do you ever put up with me?

 

Poe Dameron is not a patient man. Never has been. He is a military man, a flyboy, built for the job before he’d even been born. Soldier’s blood—a fighter’s blood— is all that has ever run through his veins. Strike first and strike hard, lest you be struck down is how he lives his life. Age and experience, a good beating or two, has taken most of the bite out of him in his old age. However, he never did quite grow out of shooting first and asking questions later.

 

Too much time on the battlefield, on a ship, on his way to uncertainty. Certainly, there are many close calls, and for many of his comrades the calls collect those days. Why he always manages to avoid their fate, he will never know. Finn told him once, while laughing over a good Corellian wine, that death only comes for the best of them first.

 

Poe still wonders what he meant by that.

 

No, Poe Dameron is not a patient man. Especially when, sitting across from him is the most stubborn damn brat he has ever had the displeasure of staring down. Maybe it is the way the boy’s jaw is tightly set. How he cracks it every so often in agitation. As though biting back his sincere, and most likely, piercing thoughts.

 

Poe’s heart hardened the moment Finn dragged the boy into his office; all long limbs and surly expression. Finn wasn’t been pulling a fast one on him, he only had to _look at the damn kid_ to know exactly whose he was. Seated opposite of him, he stares just past Poe’s shoulder with unblinking eyes the color of Corsucant jade and Mon Cala seas roughly blended together. Mocking, yet somehow wiser than they have any damn right to be.

 

Shoulders hunched forward to shield himself, still slim with youth, the military issued shirt stretched tight across the flesh beneath; betraying the strength they will grow into with the coming years. The kid will be a beast of a man once grown.

 

_Just like his father._

 

Behind the boy, Finn clears his throat and nods towards Poe to get on with it. Poe leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on the smooth desk’s surface beneath him, hands clasped to steady himself.

 

“Kiran Solo, care to tell me why Zoya Zava was found dead on Lah’mu?” Poe grimaces as soon as the words are out of his mouth—as soon as those tempest eyes snap to his own— but presses forward. “With your brother holding the murder weapon?”

 

 “Are you _implying_ —” Kiran snaps.

 

“— _General_ ” Finn cuts in, frowning.

 

“Answer the question.”

 

Kiran leans back, arms now firmly crossed over his chest; an intangible wall between himself and the General. “Sorry, _sir_. I’m afraid I don’t have answers for you.”

 

Poe presses forward, ignoring Finn’s scowling face. “On what grounds do you refuse a direct command from the General of this ship?”

 

Kiran cocks his head, studying the man across from him. “Simple. I don’t know you from a Wookie’s ass.”

 

“One of my best agents is dead, half a dozen bodies were found scattered around your home, and you two are the only witnesses alive and able to tell what happened” Poe replies, glossing over the vulgar reply, wringing the words out of his clenched jaw. “I order you to tell me.”

 

For a flicker of a second Poe swears he sees the air around the boy vibrate, unfocused and blurring the lines of his form. Poe blinks, and the image is gone.  “She was my clanmate, my sister, before your agent,” Kiran hisses, “and I’m not one of your soldiers, _sir. You don’t control me._ ”

“If you won’t talk then maybe forty-eight hours in solitary will loosen that mouth of yours.” An empty threat.

 

Finn steps forward then, eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow. “General,” he says the word like a curse, “calm yourself.”

 

Poe abruptly stands, sending the chair he had been seated in crashing to the ground. “ _Damnit, Finn_ ,” he roared, “I’ve known his parents for decades. _Kriffing decades!_ I’m not the enemy here.”

 

“Do you have evidence to support that claim?” Kiran shoots back at Poe, unfazed. “Your name can be found in textbooks and war stories, but my parents never spoke of you like a friend. Him I know—” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Finn— “my mother spoke of Finn like a brother. Told us he was as good as blood: our uncle.”

 

“I served under your grandmother,” Poe adds, shooting a look at Finn. “General Organa was as good as a mother to me.”

 

Kiran huffs, the corner of his mouth cracked into a smirk. “You make it a habit of mutinying against your mother, General?”

 

It is only his knowledge of where the boy came from, and how dear that woman had been to him, that keeps Poe rooted to the ground where he stands. Keeps him from raining down blaster fire, and every punishment he could recall his own father ever having dealt him, on the boy.

 

And Finn, as much as he loves that man, certainly doesn’t help, standing there sniggering like an idiot at the intense stare-down with an evident glee that he has no right to feel at his age or station. Poe tries to calm himself, knowing Finn won’t let him hear the end of it if he loses his temper to a teenager. He stares at the boy with mock-intimidation, rights the fallen chair, and sits back down, scowling when he catches sight of Finn’s poorly hidden grin.

 

“I helped your mom change your kriffing diaper once,” Poe rumbles, fingers taping on his desk. Realizing even as his says it, his tone is tinged with hurt rather than anger. It’s run out of him now. All that is left is the realization that his past choices have led him here, and further aching with the sting of losing Zava.

 

Of course, Rey wouldn’t have included him so easily into their hodge-podge family. Not after what he had done.

 

Kiran shrugs. “You’ve seen my ass, so what? Half of the older padawans who ever came through our homestead saw Rosh’s or my ass at some point. My mother had no issue delegating nappy duty. Zoya used to tell me—”

 

The snark goes out of the boy like a candle in a storm when he realizes what he just said. Zoya’s face, wide amber eyes gleaming with secrets, glances over her shoulder at him. A smile creeping over her lips as she runs her hand over the smooth skin of her head. The image of her, hip cocked and leaning on a training staff, watching him as he practiced forms. Every now and again gently tapping his leg or arm with the end of the staff to correct his posture. Kiran thinks of the woman he once called sister, who broke bread at their table, and called his mother Master to her face, but _mother_ when alone with he and Rosh. She’d call him a brat if she were here to witness him picking a fight like this. He inhaled deeply before speaking again.

 

“We were attacked,” he starts, uncrossing his arms and leveling his eyes on the desk in front of him. “Our parents left shortly before it happened, went into town to catch up and buy some parts; dad always misses mom. So, we were working on chores around the house while they were away. Everything was normal. Fine. Peaceful even. Then Rosh came running, terrified, and everything happened…just, so quickly then. So quickly.”

 

“We have reports that the night before two off-worlders were murdered.” Finn quietly adds. “Did you know about this?”

 

Fleetingly, Kiran’s brow furrows and an indecipherable look flashes across his features. “No. We had no idea. We were just trying to survive, to escape, but they were ready and waiting for us. I managed to help Rosh escape, but I wouldn’t have made it if Zoya hadn’t shown up when she did.” Kiran is quiet for a moment. The hum of the hyper-drive engines the only sound quietly reverberating around the room.

“Kriffing hell,” Kiran murmurs to himself. “She is really dead, isn’t she?”

 

“Zava’s remains were extracted along with you and your brother,” Finn says. “We returned her to her people while you were healing in the tank.”

 

Somberly the two men watch Kiran nod, breathing deeply before he speaks again. This time when his eyes meet Poe’s, they blaze. “He wielded a lightsaber, same as mine, however the make of it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before.”

 

Poe and Finn listen quietly to the rest of the impossible tale. Only interrupting when a pertinent question arises and realize with growing dread that the two boy’s stories matched up.

 

_They were attacked when at their most vulnerable._

 

_They nearly died._

 

_Zoya injured their assailant, but was compromised and took her own life as a result._

 

_They have no information on the whereabouts of their parents._

 

_They are alone._

 

“That will be all for now, Kiran” Poe says quietly. “Your brother can show you to your quarters. We can discuss our next step for your safety tomorrow. Get some rest.”

 

Kiran stands stiffly, leaning more on his good leg than his freshly healed one. It would be a few standard days before he would regain full mobility, and for now the limb was stiff and sore.

 

Finn claps a hand on his shoulder, smiling. “We’ll have a meal together when you’re up for it, yeah? We have much to talk about.”

 

Kiran grins back at him. He immediately liked the man after regaining consciousness earlier that day. It helped that Rosh introduced the graying soldier as “Uncle Finn, just like mama told us” as he clung to his sleeve. His uncle helps him hobble across the room and through the automatic door.

 

Poe catches a glimpse of bouncing black hair, attached to a similarly bouncing child, dart to Kiran’s side before the door _whooshes_ shut.

 

The two men regard one another for a moment, deflating before the other’s eyes. Wordlessly, Finn taps a panel on the wall that slides open to reveal a stash of spirits and glasses. Without looking, he grabs the nearest decanter full of alcohol before crossing back to Poe and plopping down in the chair Kiran sat in.

 

“Poe,” he begins, “this isn’t good. Same things are happening with the others and the reports tell us nothing."

 

Poe swirls the amber liquid in his glass once before responding. “Have you heard from her?”

 

“No,” is all Finn says for a moment, somehow managing to deflate further. “Whatever is happening out there is horrifying enough that Rey felt her sons were better off without her. Poe, they’re being hunted, that’s the only explanation. You know her, _we know her_ , she wouldn’t abandon her boys unless she believed she was a danger to them.”

 

“They are being hunted. All of the force sensitives have kriffing targets on their backs and we don’t know a damn thing,” Poe sighs.

 

“What are your orders, General?”

 

“Call back the squads that can currently be extracted. Send word to solo operatives to remain on high alert. Any squads with force sensitives are to remain in groups of three or more at all times—no excuses unless life threatening. New encryptions, new codes, everything overhauled in twenty-four standard hours. We’ve lost five agents already and I refuse to lose another.”

 

Finn nods. “And the boys?”

 

“She made precautions years ago if something like this were to happen. I owe it to her to follow them; they go to Naboo.”

 

The two men sat in silence, Finn sips from his glass as Poe’s eyes glaze over, his mind momentarily elsewhere.

 

“ _Kriff_ ,” Poe sighs, breaking the silence. “He looks just like _her._ ”

 

Finn paused, considering, before shaking his head. Reaching for the decanter to top off their drinks. “I don’t see it. Looks more like his bastard of a father if you ask me.”

 

“No,” Poe says, reaching for the glass of amber liquid Finn hands to him. He shoots it back in one gulp, hissing from the afterburn before pouring another.

 

“ _Leia._ Kids looks just like her. Same hard gaze that sizes up your worth and mostly finds you wanting.”

 

 

……………………………………………………………………

 

 

For all his energy, stepping widely alongside Kiran to keep pace, Rosh is quiet as the brothers make their way through the maze of hallways aboard the giant military ship. Only speaking when giving directions towards what Kiran assumes are the shared quarters the General mentioned. Several more turns and an elevator ride later, Rosh punches the code in next to one of the dozens of doors lining a particularly long hallway and it opens.

 

The room is small, no more than ten feet across and wide, its only furniture being two metal beds jutting out from the durasteel wall on either side with a tall metal dresser between them. All built in and sparse, purely meant for sleeping and storing basic items. It holds little warmth and comfort found within a home. Rosh enters and hoists himself up to sit on the edge of one of the beds. The stiff military issued sheets crinkling loudly under his weight.

 

“Home sweet home,” Rosh dully mumbles, waving his hand around the drab space.

 

“Is the bed as comfortable as it looks?” Kiran teases. Rosh cracks a smile at that, however it doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes. Kiran closes the space between them to sit beside his brother before circling an arm around Rosh’s shoulder and tugging him closer. The contact breaks the quiet and soon Kiran is tutting and humming while his brother sobs. Fat tears and snot seeping into the uniform the doctor had given Kiran because his clothes had been burned for fear of contamination.

 

“ _Shhh_ , it’s okay, we're okay,” Kiran whispers over the crying and snuffling. Rubbing firm circles across his brother’s trembling back. “We’re okay. It’s you and me for now, but we’re okay.”

 

Between the sobs Rosh chokes out Zoya’s name only to succumb to a new wave of fresh tears. He clings harder to Kiran as though he too would vanish and leave him alone.

 

“Zoya is with the Force now,” Kiran replies slowly.

 

“Y-yeah.” Rosh says weakly. “With grandma and grandpa.”

 

“With grandma and grandpa,” Kiran echoes. “Remember Zoya, Rosh, mourn her, however we can’t forget that she is still with us.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Watching us. Watching you blubber and rub snot all over me.” Rosh yanks back to land a fist in Kiran’s stomach. “ _Ow!_ Don’t be mad at me when it’s true, here—” Kiran pulls open one of the metal drawers and yanks out a towel. “Wipe your face, kid. You can cry more later. Better?”

 

“Better.” Rosh says, rubbing his face in the towel. He gazes back over at Kiran and the later swallows hard at the sight of dark circles looming beneath his brother’s watery eyes. Kiran’s body aches with the strain of accelerated healing in the bacta tank, his throat sore from the respiratory tubes, however Rosh hunched in on himself, perched on the side of the bunk with shallow cheeks and a Force signature so wounded and bleeding, it takes everything in Kiran not to wince from the contact of it. Rosh has mentioned Finn, the doctor, and several other crew members who checked in on him running amok on their ship: how the fuck had none of them realized how messed up Rosh was?

 

For a fleeting breath, Kiran wants to limp back to Poe’s sterile office, drag him across his garish desk, and rip him apart. He could do it. It would be pitifully simple to crush the General’s throat or snap a limb for all of their half-hearted acts of concern, concern which failed to conceal their true apathy. Not a soul on this ship gives a damn about them, they have to go, leave and find their parents, they have to—

 

“Kiran?” Rosh’s voice sears through his brother’s growing wrath, snapping him back. Blinking, he focused on Rosh’s furrowed brow and searching eyes.

 

“Yeah, kid?” Kiran asks, voice strained to keep calm.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Good, good, I’m good. How are you?” _Stupid._ Kiran mentally kicks himself before switching gears abruptly before Rosh replies. “Now, is there somewhere we can eat in this place? I’m coming out of a four-day bacta nap and feel like I’m dying.”

 

Rosh grins at that. “I’m in good with one of the café workers. Say you’re my brother and you can have all the extra sides you want.”

 

“ _All the sides?_ ”

 

“All of them. I’ve got you covered, brother. Just smile and let me do the talking.”

 

A fleeting spark gleams in Rosh’s eyes and the tightness in Kiran’s chest loosens. They will be okay, everything will be okay. However, neither of them will do well without food and rest. So, as he eases himself up from the bed, groaning from his stiff leg, Kiran follows after Rosh, listens while Rosh chitters about the women in the food line who calls him childish endearments and gives him extra snacks and treats, and decides that perhaps not _everyone_ on this ship deserved his ire and hatred.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We going to Naboo next, y'all. The sass runs in the family. Prepare for the fluff and love.


End file.
